


Black

by FriendofCarlotta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020, Demonic Possession, Discussions of Urban Gun Violence, Forced Suicide by Possession (not explicitly described), Gratuitous References to John Waters and Edgar Allan Poe, Implied Switching, Journalist Castiel, Journalist Dean Winchester, M/M, Past Castiel/Inias (mentioned) - Freeform, Past Missouri Moseley/Gordon Walker, Structural Racism, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Urban noir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26702698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta
Summary: Cas Novak, a writer who’s recently moved to Baltimore, meets Dean Winchester, a down-on-his-luck reporter for the city’s daily newspaper. When they team up to investigate a series of mysterious deaths, they unwittingly disturb a darkness preying on the city’s most lonely residents.In a neglected corner of the city’s west side, psychic Missouri Moseley sees visions of a terrible danger closing in. Will Cas and Dean heed her warnings before it’s too late?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 118
Kudos: 136
Collections: DCBB 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my DCBB fic! I've been sitting on this since the spring, and I can't believe the time has finally come to put it out into the world. 
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my beta, [andimeantittosting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting). She was such a great, supportive cheerleader for this fic, and working with her was an enormous pleasure. (She's also an amazing writer. Check her out!)
> 
> My artist partner for this bang was [archofimagine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchOfImagine/pseuds/ArchOfImagine), who made the banner and some lovely drawings that are embedded in chapters 3 and 4. This is her first time doing DCBB as an artist, so make sure you let her know how you liked her art! ([Her art post is here](https://archofimagine.tumblr.com/post/632590555682095104/i-have-participated-in-the-deancas-big-bang-on).)
> 
> Finally, thank you to the DCBB mods for running such a smooth, fun challenge! 
> 
> This is a story about Dean and Cas, of course, but it's also the story of a city. With very few exceptions, the places mentioned in this fic are real. Well, the BAMF Café *was* a real place, and I think Charlie would have loved it. Unfortunately, it closed a few years ago, but I reject that reality and substitute my own. If you Google “BAMF Café Baltimore,” you can still see plenty of pictures of the interior and, of course, the magnificent Wonder Woman painting.
> 
> Alright, I'll stop ranting at you. Enjoy!

“The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body and a more than fiendish malevolence thrilled every fiber of my frame.”

_Edgar Allan Poe, The Black Cat_

“In investigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what has occurred that has never occurred before.’”

_Edgar Allan Poe, The Murders in the Rue Morgue_

*******

**Prologue**

Things could be going better for Dean.

He’s in a broken-down, abandoned warehouse, tied to a concrete pillar, ropes chafing at his wrists, and something — he’s ninety-five percent sure it’s blood — trickling down the back of his neck.

If this is where he dies, he’s going to be really fucking annoyed.

He became a journalist because he wanted, as pathetic as it sounds, to stick it to the man. Shine a light on injustice. Defend the weak. Just like his mom used to do, decades ago.

So far, he hasn’t gotten to do any of that.

Actually, there’s a lot he never got to do, because grunt work in the dying field of print journalism doesn’t exactly pay the bills. So at thirty-four, Dean’s childless and never moved out of his parents’ old house, while his kid brother is not only a married man and owner of a spacious three-bedroom, but also raking in six figures at the state’s attorney’s office.

The one silver lining in this whole, depressing situation is Cas.

Then again, Cas might be no better off than him right now. He could also be tied up somewhere, or worse. But Dean can’t afford to think about that. He needs to keep his head on straight if he’s going to figure a way out of this.

He knows who did this to him and he knows, with a certainty that feels like an ice-cold hand on his back, that his attacker isn’t done with him.

As if on cue, he hears a door slam and footsteps approaching him in the dark.

Slowly, but with intent.

“Oh, De-hean.”

The nasal, sing-songy voice echoes off the crumbling brick walls, and yeah, Dean really wishes he’d told someone where he was going before he came here tonight.

***

**PART I: Three Weeks Earlier**

_A knife in the dark._

_A hand, moving the blade inexorably toward exposed flesh._

_Blood on the floor._

_Then, silence._

Missouri wakes. In the crib at the other side of the bedroom, Patience starts to cry, and Missouri knows it’s too late. There is no way for her to help.

What’s done is done.

*******

Jaw clenched with frustration, Cas clicks back and forth between the two tabs of his browser.

According to the ancient, cracked wall clock above his desk, he makes it another three minutes. Then, he gives up and grits out the words he tries to avoid saying whenever possible: “Marv, I could use your help.”

Marv looks up from where he’s been studying the viewing screen of his digital camera, leering. “I don’t know what wisdom I, a lowly photographer, could possibly have to offer the senior feature writer of our distinguished publication.”

“You know what? This was a terrible idea.” Cas turns back to his screen, picking up his pen and chewing on it in an effort to channel his frustration into an inanimate object. “Forget I said anything.”

Inwardly, Cas reminds himself that even at an underfunded, haphazard operation like the Baltimore Brain, punching a co-worker would probably get him fired. Even if he and Marv are the only full-time employees at the city's last remaining weekly paper and no one else is exactly clamoring to fill their jobs.

Marv has turned his attention back to the slideshow on his camera, which seems to show the results of a photo shoot at Graffiti Alley, the open-air art space a couple of blocks west from the Brain’s office.

“We both know you’re going to tell me eventually,” Marv says in what he probably imagines is a fun, teasing tone. “May as well spit it out.”

“Fine,” Cas mumbles, reluctantly admitting to himself that Marv is right. “I’m debating the merits of nurse role play over light domination.”

Marv keeps scrolling through his slideshow, barely batting an eyelash. “Dumah put you in charge of columns again?”

To fill its pages with cheap copy, the Brain runs several syndicated columns in each issue, including a few whose contents make Cas blush more than he’d like to admit, being a man in his thirties who is mostly at ease with his sexuality.

“You know she did. Well? Which one do I pick?”

“Doesn’t make a difference," Marv says, shrugging. "As long as it’s about sex, people will want to read it.”

Marv reaches for a mini-USB cable and plugs his camera into the back of his ancient computer screen. With a glance that dares Cas to make something of it, he slumps back in his chair and puts his feet on top of their shared desk. His dirt-caked boots touch down mere inches from the notes Cas took at an interview with a spoken-word poet that morning.

“Very helpful as always, Marv,” Cas says, not bothering to suppress his disgusted frown as he moves his notes to safer ground. Of all the people he would have chosen to share office space with, Marv is extremely close to the bottom of the list. Barely even above the guy who tried to sell him weed at a playground once.

His esteem for Marv hardly grows when the next thing out of his mouth is, “And yet you asked. Must be hard to get into the right frame of mind for picking a sex column when you practically have ‘dry spell’ stamped on your forehead.”

Cas gives Marv a heartfelt dose of what his brother Gabe likes to call “the smiting glare.”

“Maybe Dumah put me in charge because you and I are the only people in the office today and you’re a strange, off-putting, middle-aged man with poor hygiene habits.”

Marv chuckles. “Touchy.”

Having officially reached his limit with Marv, Cas makes a spur-of-the-moment decision in favor of light domination and forwards the link to the Brain’s part-time graphic designer. Then, he grabs his trench coat off the back of his chair, mutters, “Going for a walk,” and heads out the door.

“Bring me back some coffee! I’ll pay you later!” Marv calls after him, and Cas grinds his teeth all the way down the narrow stairs that lead to the sidewalk. He’ll feel the ache in his jaw for the rest of the day, but it can’t be helped.

Stepping out of the Brain’s so-called office is always a relief. It’s really just a cramped and dusty room on the second floor of a semi-restored commercial building on North Avenue.

At least the location makes sense. It’s close enough to the galleries and concert venues of the Station North arts district to preserve the paper’s credibility with local artists. It’s also far enough away that Dumah, the Brain’s editor and publisher, can afford the rent.

As Cas strolls down North Avenue, he forces himself to get out of his own head and take in the flow of city life around him.

Like much of Baltimore, North Avenue has always struck Cas as an in-between kind of place. It’s a major thoroughfare, but some of the houses lining it have been empty long enough to have mature trees growing through their roofs. Bizarrely, many of those vacants are bookended by beautifully restored theaters, offbeat little coffee shops and other hallmarks of a thriving urban environment.

Cas has only worked for the Brain for a couple of months, so he’s still getting to know all his options for coffee runs induced by Marv fatigue. Today, he’s going to try a place just around the corner, on Charles Street.

The BAMF Café is fairly hard to overlook, considering its glass front is adorned with a large painting of a female superhero. She’s depicted wearing a strapless top and tight blue shorts that leave very little to the imagination. A rainbow flag waves, cape-like, behind her. Cas is reasonably sure it's Wonder Woman, but this is why he's put off coming here for so long: nerd culture is not his strong suit. It’s not that he isn’t interested; he just hasn’t ever succeeded at making nerdy friends. So far, even the most determined candidates eventually tired of his near-complete ignorance of popular movies and TV shows. Just another perk of growing up in a house with a ten-foot cross on the front lawn.

Luckily, the Brain’s focus on social justice and the performing arts means pop-culture literacy isn’t a job requirement.

Bracing himself, Cas steps into the café. As expected, every surface is covered in memorabilia from movies and comic books. Cas vaguely recognizes Star Wars and Harry Potter characters. For some reason, a giant blue phone box sits in one of the back corners.

Still, the space is airy and inviting, with high ceilings and old-fashioned wooden booths. The centerpiece is an age-darkened bar, complete with a large, ornate mirror covering the wall behind the counter. Except instead of liquor, the shelves below the mirror are lined with twenty or more squeeze bottles of flavored syrup. 

While Cas is still trying to wrap his head around all this, he realizes the woman behind the bar has been waving at him. She’s petite and maybe a couple of years younger than him; late twenties or early thirties, at a guess. Striking, dark-red hair accentuates a disarmingly cheerful grin. Her black t-shirt has a print of twin lightning bolts framing the words, _Hermione Belongs With Harry_.

“Hey there, stranger! First time here? What can I get for you?”

“Um…” Cas is still slightly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information this place is throwing at him, so he goes with, “Just black coffee, thanks.” Remembering at the last minute, and even as he silently curses Marv, he adds, “Two, actually.”

“A man after my own heart,” a deep, cheerful voice says from somewhere off to his right. “Why mess up a perfectly good cup of coffee with all that frou-frou stuff?”

Cas turns and is profoundly grateful he doesn’t have any hot coffee to spill yet.

On a barstool not ten feet away sits a man who is excessively, unfairly beautiful. His features are almost completely symmetrical, but saved from blandness by the cheerful laugh lines crinkling his face. There’s a dusting of freckles across his nose, setting off a pair of striking green eyes. His dark blond hair is styled with deliberate carelessness. Even hunched over a barstool, it’s easy to tell he's as tall as Cas or perhaps a little taller.

The man’s smile is warm and maybe a touch flirtatious. Thrown completely off-balance, Cas nods a vague greeting and hopes his facial muscles are behaving themselves enough to smile back.

“Don’t scare away my customers, dude,” the woman behind the counter says, eyes sparkling with barely contained glee. “Despite what you might think, not everyone wants to be flirted with.”

The man turns to glare at her, but there’s no heat behind it. When he pivots back to Cas, it’s with a smaller, slightly apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. It’s kind of a reflex. The flirting thing, I mean. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Um, no,” Cas says, willing himself back to coherence. “You didn’t. Make me uncomfortable.”

He’s grateful for the distraction when the woman puts two to-go cups on the counter in front of him. As soon as she's set them down, she holds out her hand for Cas to shake. “I’m Charlie, by the way. I own the place. And the incorrigible flirt over there is Dean."

There's a slight tilt to Dean's smile now that makes him look almost shy as he holds out his hand as well. Cas shakes it, enjoying the feel of Dean's warm, calloused palm.

When Cas withdraws, he accidentally knocks a reporter’s notebook off the counter. “Sorry,” he mutters, and bends to retrieve it, noticing as he does so that the notebook is printed with Baltimore Star letterhead. “You work for the Star?” 

“Yup," Dean says, taking the notebook from Cas and trailing a fingertip idly along the edges of the five-pointed Star logo. "I’m the general assignment reporter. Basically, they give me the stuff nobody else wants to cover.”

A small thrill runs through Cas at the idea that there is something he has in common with Dean; something he knows how to talk about. “I write for the Brain.”

“You’re Cas Novak?” Dean looks up, eyes widening. “I’ve read some of your features. You’ve got a great eye for detail. That piece about Blaze Starr was amazing. I wish they let me write stuff like that at the Star.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, taking a cautious sip from his coffee cup to disguise the slight blush staining his cheeks. Like most journalists, he tends not to get a lot of feedback on the quality of his writing. Unless you count nasty emails from people who think he's writing about the wrong things. “What’s _your_ last name? I’ll make sure to look out for some of your bylines.”

Dean scoffs. “It’s Winchester. But honestly, don’t bother. The latest news on zoning laws doesn’t really hold a candle to our city’s most famous stripper.”

“Working for the Brain isn’t exactly glamorous either," Cas says, picking at the sleeve of his cup to give his fingers something to do. "In fact, I came here to get away from a disagreeable co-worker.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Charlie chimes in from where she’s cleaning one of the coffee makers at the far end of the bar. “If you ever wanna escape again, we’re here for you.”

Cas nods his thanks at her. He's reluctant to leave, but unsure of how to keep the conversation with Dean going. Of all possible things to say, he lands on, “Do you come here often?”

Dean chuckles, mercifully choosing not to comment on Cas' use of the world's most obvious pickup line. “Yeah. Charlie here’s one of my best friends. Whenever I have a couple of hours off between assignments, I like to hang out with her.”

“Well, uh, I’ll see you around then,” Cas says, grabbing his two coffees and turning to go with what he hopes is a few shreds of his dignity still intact.

The memory of Dean’s smile follows him all the way back to the office.

*** 

Dean fidgets behind his desk in the Star’s newsroom, fingers drumming nervously against his empty coffee mug. Any minute now, his editor’s going to yell at him about the article draft he handed in earlier. The words he rushed out in a mad, thirty-minute dash after staring at his blinking cursor for a solid hour because he couldn't figure out where to start. He can already picture the way his draft probably looks now, the black ink covered in the red scrawl of Donatello's infamous editing pen. 

Serves Dean right for thinking he could write for a living, like his mom did. 

Mary Campbell was a crime reporter at the Kansas City Sun, and the job was everything to her. At least until she met a dashing young Marine named John Winchester and put _his_ career first, following him to Pendleton, Lejeune, Quantico... wherever his deployments took him.

As Dean grew older, his mom would tell him she was planning to get back on the job eventually, just as soon as John got his discharge and they wouldn't have to move around so much anymore. The discharge came eventually, but they never did settle down.

In fact, restless in civilian life, John moved them around more than ever, chasing one temporary job after another. Finally, when Dean was twelve and his little brother Sam was eight, John’s old friend Bobby let him know about job openings at the Port of Baltimore. That was how they came to live here.

The port was thriving, even as the rest of the city had lost much of its population to the suburbs, and the combination of well-paid union work and cheap real estate finally kept John from wanting to move again.

Barely three years after they got to Baltimore, Mary died of cancer. John went into a tailspin, drinking heavily and disappearing for days at a time. Once, after he'd been gone a week, Dean seriously considered calling the police for help in finding him, but he knew where that conversation was likely to end: with him and Sam stuck in the city's notorious foster care system.

Before long, John lost his job at the port. Bobby came through for the family again, using his union connections to get him another gig, this time at the GM plant just outside the city. But it soon became clear that John wouldn’t be able to hold down any kind of steady employment anymore, and money got to be tight.

One particularly desperate year, Dean broke into a neighbor’s house to steal Christmas presents for Sam so he could pretend that John had bought them. Thankfully, the neighbor, Ellen, never pressed charges. Instead, she took it upon herself to check in on the Winchester boys from then on, extending an open invitation for them to sleep over in her spare bedroom or do homework at her kitchen table alongside her daughter, Jo.

Ellen's kindness kept their heads above water, but Dean was itching to be self-sufficient and pay for whatever Sam needed, so he dropped out of high school at seventeen and went to work at the GM plant. Bobby tried to change Dean’s mind when he applied for the job, but Dean had learned stubbornness at John’s knee. He could always get his GED later. He did, too, in his early twenties, pulling all-nighters studying after a ten-hour shift at the factory.

By that point, John would still turn up at the Winchester home sometimes, but it happened less and less often. One especially memorable night, two days after Dean’s twentieth birthday, John got into a screaming match with Sam that was threatening to turn into a brawl, and Dean kicked him out. John staggered away into the night, leaving behind nothing but his 1967 Chevy Impala.

That was the last time Dean ever saw his father. Seven years later, Dean had John declared dead.

He was already pretty tired of building undercarriages for SUVs by then, and the payout from John’s life insurance was his ticket to college.

When it came time to choose his major, Dean thought back to evenings spent in the kitchen with his mom, and her anecdotes from the crime beat at the KC Sun. That time she’d turned up a crucial piece of evidence that helped the police identify a serial arsonist. The deep, satisfying glow of knowing she’d played a part in making sure a bad guy couldn’t hurt anyone else.

There really wasn’t any question after that about what Dean was going to do.

Of course, he found out pretty quickly that being a journalist was harder than it looked. There were some parts of the job that came naturally to him: charming people into telling him things they might not have meant to tell, thinking on his feet to ask the right questions and get the best angle on a story.

The actual writing-it-all-down part? He's always struggled a bit with that, which is the root cause of his current problem: the lecture he's almost definitely about to get from his editor. For lack of anything better to do, he's pulled his draft back up on the screen, glaring at all the sloppy typos he should've fixed before sending the damn thing to Donatello.

As though summoned by Dean's spiraling anxiety, Donatello rips open his office door.

“Winchester!” 

Well, there it is. 

Trying to delay the inevitable, he aims a helpless glance at Jody, the veteran city hall reporter. She does look sorry for him, but he gets no more than a quick smile and a “Good luck, kiddo” before she turns back to her screen. She’s on a deadline, just like everybody else.

Dean gets up to face his judgment in the form of a small, stocky man sporting a knitted sweater and a disheveled mop of wavy grey hair.

But before Dean's taken more than three steps away from his desk, Donatello slaps his hand against his office door, making even Jody jump. The door displays an impressive lineup of printouts, all listing standard rules for newspaper style and spelling.

“Uppercase job titles if they appear _before_ the source’s name, _never_ after! What is wrong with you people?”

Dean is seriously considering trying to find a desk to hide under, but Donatello’s already spotted him and is waving him over. Feeling twice as heavy as his actual weight, Dean steps through the doorframe and slumps into the chair on the near side of Donatello’s desk.

Donatello squeezes past him and takes his own seat, hands tented and penetrating brown eyes studying Dean intently. Dean chances a quick glance at Donatello’s desktop, and sure enough, there’s a printout of his article, covered in red marks. Way too many red marks. Shit.

“So, um, you read my draft?” Dean mumbles, just trying to get this the hell over with.

“I did,” Donatello says, on the exhale of a world-weary sigh. Apparently sensing Dean’s discomfort, he adds, “It’s not _that_ bad.”

Dean snorts. “You flatter me, boss.”

“Flattery won’t help you improve, Winchester,” Donatello says, as usual refusing to engage with Dean’s deflection strategies. It’s one of the things Dean actually kind of likes about the guy, even if he can be fucking scary when his goat’s up. “You know I like your work. Wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t. But you want to know why there’s red all over this piece of paper?” He holds it up to show Dean what he already knows.

“Why?” Dean asks dutifully.

“Because you don’t think before you write, Winchester. You go in guns blazing, writing things down in whatever order they happen to occur to you. Which is all well and good if you’re doing stream-of-consciousness poetry, but a good news article has to be simple and logical above all things. It has to be so simple a moron can understand it, because most people, and therefore most of our readers, _are_ morons.” 

Dean chuckles despite himself. This is one of Donatello’s favorite lines.

In fact, the crime reporter, Donna, has _Most People Are Morons_ embroidered on one of the throw pillows on her couch at home. She showed the pictures around the newsroom one day, when the editor-in-chief had forced Donatello to take his first vacation day in five years.

At this point, Dean realizes Donatello’s still talking, and he should probably be tuning back into the conversation.

“… know you think the assignments you get are beneath you, Winchester, but we all have to pay our dues in this job. You’ve got talent, and I know you’re interested in the crime beat. Tell you the truth, I think you’ve got the chops to take over whenever Donna gets kicked upstairs or moves on somewhere else. But I need you to prove it to me.”

Suddenly a lot more interested in what Donatello has to say, Dean leans forward in his chair. “How do I do that?”

Donatello frowns, pretending to consider, but Dean isn’t fooled. He knows exactly what he’s going to say. He’s just pausing for dramatic effect.

“Bring me a pitch,” Donatello says, in what amounts to a stage whisper. “A crime story with a twist. Something that’s not on Donna’s radar yet.”

“I’ll do it.” There’s no hesitation in Dean’s answer, because yeah, he wants the crime beat; the beat his mom used to work. Even if he has no idea how he’s going to find a story that Donna, with her law-enforcement contacts all over the city, hasn’t gotten wind of yet. 

Donatello nods approvingly. “Good.” He hands Dean the printout of his article and, God, close up, all that red looks even worse. “Now make those corrections and get me a clean second draft.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean mentions Blaze Starr, who died in 2015, but was a true Baltimore legend. Fun fact: When Blaze was still working, it was a rite of passage for fraternity pledges to find out her bra size (38DD).
> 
> The Baltimore Star is based on the Baltimore Sun, our chronically underfunded daily paper. The Baltimore Brain is based on the Baltimore City Paper, which unfortunately went out of business a couple of years ago. Like the Brain, it focused on the performing arts and social justice issues. And yes, it ran syndicated sex columns.
> 
> "Most people are morons" was the most treasured maxim of one of my former editors.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean gets his second draft done in half an hour, and he should really spend the rest of the afternoon coming up with story ideas to pitch at tomorrow’s budget meeting.

But he keeps thinking back to his conversation with Donatello.

 _A crime story with a twist._ Dean turns those words over in his mind. “With a twist” could mean something weird. Something so out there, the police haven’t shared it with Donna and wouldn’t mention it on the police scanner she listens to religiously. Where would he even start? 

Dean paces the newsroom floor with his fourth cup of coffee until Jody yells at him for “wearing holes in the damn carpet.” The movement must’ve helped kick his brain into gear though, because that’s when he realizes his best option is calling Jo. She’s a BPD homicide detective, and they’ve been friends since that memorable year he tried to steal her Christmas presents from her mother’s house.

Before he can second-guess himself, Dean picks up his desk phone and makes the call that will change his life.

Jo picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey there, Detective Harvelle. What’s shaking?” Dean makes sure his best flirtatious grin comes through in his voice. Flirtation is just part of his and Jo’s dynamic, even though it’s long been understood between them that they’ll never take things any further.

“Dean Winchester,” she says, deliberately drawing out the vowels of his first name. “You finally calling about that date you’ve owed me for the past fifteen years?”

“Eh. I know you’re out of my league,” Dean shoots back, the move as automatic as a well-practiced dance routine.

Jo chuckles. “Damn right. So what’s up?”

“Alright, I’ll level with you. This ain't a social call.”

Jo is silent for two beats. “You calling as a reporter from the Star? Because if that’s what this is, I should hang up and tell you to call the BPD spokesman.”

Dean notes with satisfaction that she said _should_ , not _will_.

“I’m not asking you to compromise an investigation or anything,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not out to get you into trouble. What I’m looking for is a lead on something. Something that’s maybe a little weird or unusual but hasn’t been newsworthy enough to make it onto Donna’s radar.”

“That’s a good point,” Jo says, back to the teasing tone. “What are you doing butting in on Donna’s beat?”

Dean considers. Donna knows a lot of people at the department, and she’s well liked, especially for a reporter. He doesn’t want any rumors to get to her. “Nothing like that. But my editor wants me to stretch my legs and report on different kinds of stories. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Jo says, clearly not buying his half-truths. “You’re lucky I’ve had something on my mind that might be what you’re looking for." The clacking of a computer keyboard sounds across the line. "You remember that woman who was found dead in a vacant in Old Goucher a couple of weeks ago?”

“Not particularly, no.”

Jo scoffs. “Thought you were in the news business?”

Dean can’t help but flare up a little. “First of all, like you just pointed out, crime isn’t my beat. And even if it was, there’s more than three hundred murders a year in this city. And yeah, we should cover every single one of them, but you know as well as I do that newspapers aren’t exactly swimming in cash to hire more reporters.”

“Here’s the thing though,” Jo says levelly, sailing right past Dean’s rant about the funding woes of print journalism. “We didn’t think it was a homicide. Not at first. All the physical evidence seemed to suggest this woman just walked into the house by herself and cut her own throat.”

Dean swallows hard. “Not a good way to go.”

“No,” Jo agrees. “It’d be an incredibly hard thing to do to yourself. And why do it in a moldy vacant littered with used needles, five blocks from your house? But that’s not even the weird part.”

“That’s not… seriously?” Dean can’t help but sit up a little straighter in his chair, leaning toward the phone like if he gets close enough, he’ll be able to get the facts out of Jo more quickly.

“Seriously,” Jo says, deadpan. “The weird thing was that there was a strong smell of rotten eggs at the scene. We couldn’t trace it to any external source. And then, one of the crime-scene techs found traces of sulfur on the victim’s clothes.”

“Huh. That _is_ weird.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, there was a reporter from the Brain who wrote about the case, and that detail ended up in his article somehow. So since it’s already out there, I figure it’s OK to tell you.”

Dean huffs. “Jo, what good is this to me if someone else already wrote about it?”

Jo’s eye roll is practically audible over the phone line. “Hold your horses. I’m not done.”

“OK.” Dean does his best to sound contrite. “Sorry. Keep going.”

“What the Brain guy probably doesn’t know is that sulfur was also found at the scene of another homicide a week later.”

“That’s more like it. Same neighborhood?”

“Nope. A resident of Poe Homes public housing. Gordon Walker. Recently paroled lifer. Found in that big, empty apartment complex across the street, also with apparently self-inflicted wounds. No connection between the two victims as far as we can tell, except they were both recent arrivals with no family in the city.”

Dean thinks this over. “So they were people whose deaths wouldn’t raise too many questions. Who might not be found for a while, because no one would bother looking.”

“Exactly.”

“Thanks, Jo,” Dean says, meaning it. “Could be a solid lead.”

She hums in vague acknowledgment. “Just don’t reveal your sources, please and thank you.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone at BPD you like to solve crimes and serve the public interest. I know that’s not how they roll.”

Dean’s being an ass and he knows it, but the city police department has a bad reputation for a reason. So he can’t help getting in a shot every once in a while, even though he’s sure that Jo is clean.

“Low blow, Winchester. Next time you need a favor, don’t bother calling.”

“How about I take you out on that date? Make it up to you?”

On the tail end of an annoyed huff, the phone line goes dead.

Dean puts the receiver down and turns to his computer screen, typing “Baltimore brain murder sulfur” into the search bar and wondering vaguely what kind of weird government watch list he just got himself added to.

Thankfully, the top result is the Baltimore Brain article about the murder, the word “sulfur” highlighted in the article excerpt. Dean clicks, and his eyes flick to the byline: Cas Novak.

Remembering piercing blue eyes, disheveled brown hair and a boxy trench coat, Dean smiles.

*** 

The yellow crime-scene tape across the street from Missouri’s kitchen window has come loose on one side, waving at her in mocking imitation of a greeting.

Someone is dead. Again. This time, someone Missouri knows. Someone Missouri maybe could have saved if her skills weren’t so rusty. 

Rage and disappointment bubble up inside her, and she grips the edge of the sink so tight, it seems like the metal should bend under her touch.

Later, she’ll be taking her granddaughter for a walk in her stroller, and the crime-scene tape will still be there.

It bears no significance for the child now. But barely a day goes by without another crime scene in this neighborhood, and the day is growing closer when Patience will start to ask questions.

***

Working a sort-of-but-not-really-full-time job at an underfunded weekly paper doesn’t pay enough to cover rent and also eat like a human being.

Cas learned this lesson painfully when he first moved to Baltimore three months ago and realized he’d failed to do some basic math about his own finances relative to the cost of a decent apartment.

His excuse is that he was desperate to get out from under his family’s thumb.

Cas has been living away from home for a decade. But before his recent move, he was still within driving distance of his parents’ house just outside Cleveland. Close enough that his mother felt entitled to come by unannounced, often in the company of a good Christian woman who was supposed to help Cas discover that he wasn’t, in fact, attracted to other men. Also, that he wanted nothing more than to be married and have as many children as possible.

When Cas spotted a job opening with an offbeat weekly paper in Baltimore whose mission appealed to him, he applied on a whim. There wasn’t a lot of competition for the job, and it sounded a lot more interesting than covering the suburbs for the Cleveland Advocate. So he quit and uprooted his life.

Not that there had been much to uproot in the first place.

Still, his current, somewhat precarious financial situation means Cas has to pick up occasional hours at Tran’s, the small convenience store just down the street from his tiny walk-up studio in the Charles Village neighborhood. It’s quiet work most of the time, and his only real complaint is the unflattering blue vest Mrs. Tran makes him wear.

Charles Village being what people like to call a “transitional” area, there’s always a chance of the store being robbed. But the danger isn’t nearly as pronounced as it would be on the far east and west sides of the city.

Besides, if he needed to defend himself, Cas could make effective use of the shotgun tucked out of sight on a low shelf behind him. When he was growing up, his parents had the text of the Second Amendment stitched onto a framed piece of embroidery that hung above the fireplace. Cas learned to shoot a soup can off a log at fifteen paces before he learned the state capitals.

Right now, it’s early evening, and the store is quiet. Cas has his laptop perched on the counter in front of him, taking a few minutes to transcribe his recording of an interview earlier that day.

He curses quietly when his phone rings, breaking his concentration. The number displayed on the screen is unfamiliar and, for a second, Cas considers not answering. But he has his cell number listed on the Brain’s website so he can be easily accessible to potential sources. Which is a bit hypocritical if he isn’t going to pick up the phone when potential sources call.

With a sigh, he slides his thumb across the screen and brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Oh. Hi. You’re still at the office? I was expecting to get your voicemail.”

Cas frowns, trying to place the voice at the other end. It sounds vaguely familiar. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. This is Dean Winchester.” Cas’ eyes widen. “You might not remember, but we met a couple of days ago, at…”

“At the café,” Cas says, feeling a little dazed. “Yes, I remember. Hello again, Dean.”

“Um. Hi.”

Cas waits. Just when he thinks he should maybe ask why Dean is calling, Dean adds, “Hope you don’t think I’m stalking you or anything. I just got your number off the Brain’s website and I was going to leave a message to see if you wanted to meet up with me.”

“The number on the website is my cell,” Cas says automatically, once again completely wrong-footed in a conversation with Dean. Is he being asked out?

“You want to meet up,” he adds, deciding that’s a sufficiently neutral statement.

“Yeah. Um, in a professional capacity. I wanted to ask you a couple of things about an article you wrote. The one about Meg Masters.”

Cas swallows down his slight disappointment at finding out that Dean is not, after all, asking for a date. “Oh. The woman who died in Old Goucher?”

“That’s the one. Do you mind? I just think it might be helpful to pick your brain on this, because I’m working on something that’s kind of related.”

Cas grins. “You want me to help you with a story? You, the competition?”

He’s delighted when he hears Dean chuckle in response. “I’m hardly the competition, Cas. Don’t think there’s much overlap in our readership.”

“Or our advertisers. Not unless the Star has started running ads for sex shops,” Cas says, and immediately wants to slam his head against the counter for making things weird. He stops himself just in time when he hears the raucous laughter at the other end of the line.

They keep talking for another few minutes, and eventually agree to meet up at the café again the following afternoon.

Cas tries to get back to his recording, but gives it up for a lost cause when he realizes it’s been playing in his ear for ten minutes and he hasn’t taken in a single word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s cynicism about the BPD is well-founded. The department is currently under a federal consent decree due to its pattern of racist policing. Recently, it came to light that a notorious BPD plain-clothes unit known as the Gun Trace Task Force had been running an actual robbery and drug-trafficking ring for years.


	3. Chapter 3

Ten minutes after he hangs up the phone, Dean’s still riding the buzz of what he’d consider a pretty successful interaction with a damn attractive guy. Who also happens to have a smart, sarcastic sense of humor. 

Clearly, he’s out of Dean’s league.

But Cas agreed to meet him and, sure, it might not be a date, but maybe Dean can at least try to find out if Cas is even interested in guys.

Bottom line, Dean’s earned his after-work beer, so he kicks away from the desk at the far end of his home office (formerly known as the second bedroom), rolling about halfway to the door on the smooth hardwood floor.

Dean’s lack of funds means he never moved out of his parents’ house, even when his parents were no longer in the picture. He only has another couple of years to go on the mortgage, at which point he might be able to spend money on some of the finer things in life. Like a suit for work that didn’t sell for sixty percent off the sticker price because of a weird stain on the collar.

The Winchester house is a classic Baltimore rowhome, which means it lacks central heating, there’s very little natural light, and it’s cramped as hell. Also, every time Dean walks downstairs from his home office or bedroom to the kitchen-slash-living room, it feels like he’s taking his life in his hands. Half the bruises Sam and Dean got as kids were from falling down the nearly vertical staircase, with its uneven treads and loose carpet.

This time, Dean makes it downstairs without any major injuries. That victory is short-lived, though, because as soon as he rounds the corner into the kitchen, he slams straight into his brother.

Somewhat resentfully, Dean rubs his stomach where it connected with Sam’s unnaturally pointy elbow. “Fuck, you startled me.”

Sam grins. “You seriously didn’t hear me let myself into the house? Guess your reflexes aren’t what they used to be.”

Dean wants to come back with a snappy retort, but decides to forgive his brother when he gets handed a beer straight from the fridge.

“Eileen out of town?” Dean asks as he pulls out the miniature bottle opener he carries somewhere on his person at all times. “You don’t usually show up unannounced otherwise.”

“Yeah, she’s got that elder-care conference in Chicago all week,” Sam says, leaning against the kitchen island and gulping down about a third of his beer in one go.

Dean can’t help it; he defaults to obnoxious-big-brother mode around Sam every time. “Slow down there, Sammy. We both know you’re a lightweight.”

Sam slumps a little more against the counter of the island and runs his free hand down his face. “Don’t start with me. Not today.”

Dean immediately switches tracks from obnoxious to concerned.

“What’d Billie do this time?”

Billie Wright is the telegenic, crusading state’s attorney who was swept into office two elections ago, on a wave of popular discontent with the status quo in city government. When she took charge, she fired most of the veteran prosecutors in her office and replaced them with young blood, including Sam.

“She’s still upset about that article you guys ran a couple days ago, about how low our conviction rates are.” Sam shoots a sideways look at Dean. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Dean shrugs as he ambles out of the kitchen and drops onto the worn old three-seater in the living room. “Kinda the job of a newspaper, Sammy. Pointing out when city officials aren’t doing _their_ jobs.”

Sam heaves a sigh as he flops down next to Dean, unfolding his freakishly long legs and levering them up onto the coffee table. Dean has a fleeting thought that Mom would kill him for that if she were here.

“Not like we can convict if the cops don’t bring us the evidence to _get_ a conviction,” Sam says, voice weary with repetition. They’ve had this conversation many times. “Or they do, but then it turns out the cop was crooked and we have to retry the whole damn case without the arresting officer’s testimony.”

Dean waits, knowing that even though Sam has said all this before, he needs to work through it again anyway.

“’Course, Billie wants us to keep bringing charges, even on flimsy evidence. Which is yet another reason why our conviction rates suck.”

Sam peels at the label on his beer bottle, then straightens, visibly done with the subject. “How’re _you_ though, man?”

“Eh.” Dean shrugs and, fuck it, slumps down on the couch and puts his feet up right alongside Sam’s. “Same old. Except, apparently, Donatello doesn’t hate my guts as much as I thought.”

“Oh?” Sam raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Yeah, he wants to groom me as the next crime reporter, or some shit like that.”

“That’s great, right?” Sam lights up with what Dean considers an uncomfortable amount of excitement on his behalf. He suspects Sam mostly gets so excited about any good news in Dean’s life because, all things considered, Dean’s life is pretty pathetic.

“Guess so,” Dean shrugs. Downplaying his own accomplishments, especially around Sam, is a habit he’s too old to shed now. “Maybe if I get promoted, I’ll join you and Eileen in that sweet suburban life.”

The atmosphere takes on a sharper edge then. The fact that Sam lives in a roomy, three-bedroom place with a giant backyard is a bit of a sore subject between them, because it’s related to the ultimate sore subject: their finances. As in, the discrepancy between what Sam makes and what Dean makes.

It’s not like Sam’s never offered to help Dean out when stuff breaks around the house; which it does, often. But Dean has turned him down every time, and sometimes none too politely.

“You don’t expect me to believe you’re suddenly pining for a white picket fence,” Sam says with a tentative smile, trying to get back onto safe ground.

Dean decides to meet him halfway by returning the smile and giving a little shrug. “No, guess you’re right. I like to complain about the city as much as the next guy, but living anywhere else would probably bore the shit out of me.”

They sit in silence for a minute, just enjoying their beers and each other’s company.

Dean’s just starting to relax when Sam nudges his shoulder and goes, “Sooo… how’s the love life?”

Dean gives that question the glare it deserves. “Why’re you here again?”

*** 

It’s April, and Cas seems to recall from his research before moving to Baltimore that April is supposed to translate to “warm and pleasant” here.

Yet, there’s a definite chill in the air as he makes the trek from the Brain’s office to the BAMF Café. Once again, Cas is extremely grateful for his coat.

He’s been wearing some version of a trench coat since his late teens. It started as a relatively safe way to stand out from the rest of the men in his family and their carefully tailored black suits. And, if he’s honest with himself, it was sometimes a way to hide. Maybe if he could wrap himself in a boxy coat, no one would notice his surreptitious glances at other boys his age, or the way he would blush whenever one happened to glance back.

In the years since he’s moved away from his parents’ house, Cas has expanded his bid for sartorial freedom to include a few pairs of jeans and more casual shirts. But any time the temperature dips below seventy-five degrees, the trench coat still makes an appearance. Cas knows wearing a formal coat most days probably comes off as an affectation; he just doesn’t care enough about other people’s opinions to forego the sense of safety and familiarity.

That sense of safety feels particularly necessary when he considers where he’s headed. During their phone call the other night, he ended up falling into an easy rapport with Dean. Which, it should be noted, isn’t something that ever happens to him.

Perhaps as a result of his strict upbringing, Cas has a hard time truly relaxing around other people. Even when he does, he’s well aware that his sarcasm and bluntness can be off-putting.

It’s part of why he hasn’t made a lot of friends. Besides his older brother Gabe, the only person he talks to regularly is Hannah.

Ironically, Hannah was his parents’ last and most desperate attempt to fix him up. But Hannah had been kind enough to respect Cas’ lack of romantic interest, and suggested they try for a friendship instead. To Cas’ everlasting amazement, this has sort of worked. They aren’t exactly best friends, but they’re close enough to check in on each other once a month.

Point being, Cas isn’t used to getting along with people. Least of all someone as obviously confident and attractive as Dean Winchester.

Which is why he’s buzzing with nervousness by the time he steps through the BAMF Café’s front entrance. Even though Cas is early, Dean is already waiting for him, this time at one of the small wooden booths to the right of the entrance.

He’s talking to Charlie, who’s making a drink behind the bar, but he turns his head immediately when the door opens. When he spots Cas, he flashes a bright smile. “Hey, Cas. Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” Cas nods, surprised at the ease with which an answering smile appears on his face. “Any time I spend here is time spent away from Marv. So I should be thanking _you_.”

Dean chuckles, eyes twinkling. “That bad, huh?”

“At least he’s not my editor. Small mercies.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Dean says as he turns to wave Charlie over to their table. “Nothing like a bad editor to suck the fun out of the job.”

Charlie sidles up to the table and gives Cas a cheerful grin. “Hey, Cas. You should make Dean tell you about Donatello. He’s got stories for hours.”

“About the sculptor?” Cas asks, tilting his head and squinting in bewilderment at the apparent change of subject. He’s been told this particular mannerism makes him look like a myopic bird, but it gets another smile out of Dean.

“No, my editor. Donatello Redfield. He’s, uh… well, I wouldn’t call him a bad editor exactly, but he’s a character for sure.”

Cas raises a challenging eyebrow at Dean. “If we’re playing a game of ‘whose editor is more of a character,’ I should warn you that I’m going to win. Dumah, my editor, moonlights as a performance artist. Her stage name is The Empty.”

Charlie lets out a snort at that, but Cas is more focused on Dean’s delighted belly laugh. “Holy crap, Cas. Have you ever gone to see one of her shows?”

Cas nods, lips turning up. He can’t remember the last time he smiled so much. “Once. As far as I could tell, the point was mostly to writhe around in a black cat suit to vaguely ominous music.”

“I like you, dude,” Charlie says, clapping a not-exactly-gentle hand on Cas’ shoulder. “You can stay. Now, what can I get you two lovely gents?”

They put in an order for two black coffees and chat idly until Charlie returns with their drinks. When she’s gone again, Dean leans down to rummage in his messenger bag. He reemerges clutching a printout of a Brain article.

“So… thanks again for meeting me. I really wanted to ask you a few things about the Meg Masters story.”

Cas nods as he takes a quick sip of his coffee, savoring how the jolt of caffeine immediately sharpens his focus. “You’re working on something related to her case?”

“Sort of.” Dean looks Cas up and down for a moment, sizing him up. Then, he seems to come to some sort of decision. “Alright, I’ll share. On the understanding that I’m not going to tell you how I know any of what I’m about to say.”

“Of course.”

Pointing a finger at Cas in mock threat, Dean adds, “And no stealing my scoops, you hear me?”

Cas mimes zipping his mouth closed. “Your scoops are safe with me. What do you want to know?”

“The detail about the sulfur.” Dean bends over the printout and points at the relevant paragraph, which he’s circled with green highlighter. It's right next to the only photograph of Meg Masters that Cas was able to find. It shows her a few years earlier, in college. A blonde pixie haircut sits atop a cheerful smile as she leans into someone just out of frame. Cas knows it’s Meg’s little sister. Dumah decided the sister should be cropped from the shot because she wasn’t quoted in the story. Cas had tried to interview her, but she'd been too distressed.

“Yes,” Cas says thoughtfully. “That was strange. Not that I have a lot of experience with crime scenes, but the detective I spoke to said he’d never heard of sulfur being found on a dead body before.”

Dean nods eagerly and leans forward. “Which makes what I’m about to tell you even more interesting. There was another body with sulfur at the scene a week later.”

Cas leans forward as well, which puts his face only a couple of inches from Dean’s. “Are you serious? Any connection to Meg?”

“Nothing obvious, but maybe.” Dean leans back against the side of the booth, and his face splits in a teasing grin. “See if you can figure it out for yourself. What do you know about Meg?”

Cas considers this. “Well… she’d only been in Baltimore a couple of weeks. No friends to speak of yet. I actually had a really hard time finding anyone who knew her, aside from her parents back home. The only reason Dumah wanted me to cover the story was because Meg was a fairly well-known artist in Pittsburgh before she came here. She was trying to break into the local arts scene, but she hadn’t gotten there yet.”

Dean takes a sip from his mug, then cups it with both hands. He’s got that appraising look again when he says, “The other victim, Gordon Walker, was a recently paroled lifer. Just a couple weeks out of prison and living by himself at Poe Homes. The public housing complex. See the connection?”

Slowly, Cas says, “I think so. They were both recent arrivals. Alone and friendless. No one would have missed them for a while.” The words hit a little too close to home, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine.

Then, something occurs to him. “You know, there was a detail I didn’t mention in the story. Something Meg’s mother said. It didn’t seem necessary to include it, and I don’t think she really meant to tell me.”

Something dark flits across Dean’s features when he says, “Yeah. People who are grieving tend to say a lot of stuff they can’t take back.”

Cas waits for Dean to elaborate, but Dean just sits, focused on the contents of his coffee mug. Reluctantly, Cas concludes he doesn’t know Dean well enough to pry, and picks up the previous thread of their conversation.

“Meg’s mother said she was very close with her daughter. Meg would call her at least every other day to check in. Until about a week before her death, when she just stopped calling. The day before Meg died, Mrs. Masters received a call from Meg’s number. The person at the other end claimed to be Meg, but Mrs. Masters told me that it _wasn’t_ her.”

Dean frowns. “What does that mean? Like, a friend of hers pretending to be her?”

“Not exactly,” Cas says, shrugging. “She said it was Meg’s voice, but not Meg. Like someone else was speaking _through_ her.”

Dean leans back and runs a hand through his hair, considering. “Well, that’s creepy as fuck, but she was probably just confused, right?”

“I’m not so sure.” Cas closes his eyes briefly, trying to remember the sound of Mrs. Masters’ voice in his ear. “She was grieving, yes. But she seemed rational. She sounded _sure_.”

Dean looks down at his coffee mug again, picking idly at a place where the rim is slightly chipped. When his eyes finally come up to meet Cas’, they’re alight with determination. “I’m going to Poe Homes tomorrow. I wanna see if anyone there knows anything about Gordon Walker. Wanna come along?”

*** 

_A knife in the dark._

_The flash of a tan coat._

_Blue eyes, wide with fear._

Missouri wakes, and she knows. She _knows_ there is time yet before this happens.

Perhaps, with just a little bit of luck on her side, this particular tragedy can be prevented.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam’s complaints about work are based on real-life reporting about the Baltimore state’s attorney’s office by The Baltimore Sun. Our state's attorney, Marilyn Mosby, is famous for bringing charges against the police officers involved in the arrest and subsequent death of 23-year-old Freddie Gray. None of the officers were convicted.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m still not entirely sure why you asked me to come along,” Cas says as he slams the Impala’s passenger door. “You said yourself that you didn’t want me to ‘steal your scoop.’”

Dean walks around the car and claps Cas on the shoulder, caught somewhere between amusement at the endearing use of air quotes, and annoyance, because Cas seems to be trying pretty hard to make a case against spending more time with him.

He knows that last part is an overreaction. But if he’s totally honest, he’s feeling a little self-conscious about the real reason he asked Cas to come: he never did grow enough of a spine to ask whether Cas is into guys or not, let alone try for an actual date. So yeah, it doesn’t make sense to ask a reporter from another publication to tag along for his reporting trip. But sue him, he just needed an excuse to hang out with the guy.

“Thought you’d be interested,” Dean mumbles vaguely, and points across the street to a series of unassuming three-story brick buildings. “Here we are. Poe Homes.”

There’s minimal landscaping around the public-housing complex, and no outward sign distinguishing one concrete entranceway from the next. The sidewalks surrounding the buildings are littered with empty straw cups and food wrappers.

“Why is it called Poe Homes?” Cas asks, frowning at a trash-strewn, overgrown alley as they walk past.

“See that building back there?” Dean steps behind Cas, close enough for his chest to touch Cas’ back. It might be his imagination, but he thinks Cas leans into him just a little.

He points over Cas’ shoulder at a small, colonial-style brick house just beyond the public-housing complex. Once Dean is sure Cas is looking the right way, he says, “Edgar Allan Poe used to live there. It’s a museum now. They even have a Poe-themed street festival once a year.”

Cas turns to take in the six-floor apartment building across the street from Poe Homes. It's sleek and modern-looking, all shades of grey and mismatched window frames. “So things are improving in this neighborhood?”

Dean shrugs, rubbing his hands together to keep the spring chill at bay. “Not exactly. They were supposed to be. Some out-of-town developer said they had big plans. Put up that new building. Around the time they were supposed to start leasing the apartments though, like a year ago, they claimed there was some kind of plumbing issue. No one’s ever moved in. That’s where they found Gordon’s body.”

Dean looks sideways at Cas, who is still studying the apartment building like it holds the secrets of the universe. 

“I can see it now," Cas says. “There's something hollow about it. You can tell no one’s ever lived there.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, quietly. It always gets to him, the air of vacant neglect that hangs over this neighborhood like an inescapable nightmare creature. He can't help but wonder how people manage to live here day-to-day without losing their minds. Maybe they don't. Cas' eyes slide away from the depressing sight of the empty building and meet Dean's, an echo of his own melancholy reflected back at him. They stay where they are, eyes fixed on each other, for much longer than is technically polite.

When Dean finally turns away, there is a woman across the street, just at the edge of the courtyard leading to the center of Poe Homes.

She’s likely approaching sixty, but her upright posture and carefully shaped curls make her look younger. At her side is a small umbrella stroller carrying a sleeping toddler girl.

As soon as she sees Dean looking her way, she smiles, her face open and kind. The perfect place to start.

He taps Cas’ arm and inclines his head toward the woman. Cas nods and follows Dean as he heads over. Before Dean speaks, he hitches on his best “talk to me, I mean well” smile.

“How are you, ma’am? I’m Dean Winchester, a reporter with the Star. I’m writing a piece about someone called Gordon Walker. Did you maybe know him?”

Dean doesn’t miss the way the woman’s eyes fix on Cas and study him intently before sliding back to him. “Good to meet you, Dean Winchester,” she says, her voice soft, but tinged with the kind of weariness that comes from past grief. “I’m Missouri Moseley.”

She smiles down at the stroller, the fondness in her expression taking another few years off her face. “This here’s my granddaughter, Patience.”

When Missouri looks back up at Dean, her expression is a good deal less soft. “As for your second question, I did know Gordon, but it never hurt to take time for a polite greeting before jumping right into other people’s business.”

Dean’s pretty thoroughly thrown by this unexpected lecture, but Cas seems to take it in stride, because he steps forward with a conspiratorial smile and holds out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Moseley. I’m Cas Novak, with the Baltimore Brain. I apologize on Dean’s behalf. He has poor manners, but he means well.”

If possible, Dean feels even more off-balance, watching shy, awkward Cas suddenly transform into Mr. Smooth Journalist. Also, he kind of wants to defend his honor, but Cas and Missouri silence him with twin glares.

“Call me Missouri,” she says to Cas, shaking his hand and fixing him with a fond glance. “It’s a cold day. If you’d care to follow me to my place, I might have some answers to your questions.”

Without waiting for them to either accept or decline, she turns the stroller and heads into the courtyard. Dean trails behind her, feeling vaguely like the bratty schoolboy he hasn’t been in fifteen years.

As they cross the courtyard, Dean notices a couple of worn-down couches have been dragged into its center. A group of six teenage boys is sitting on the backs and armrests, shoulders hunched against the wind. Their eyes follow the newcomers, sizing them up. Dean nods at them, trying to establish some kind of rapport. Only one of the boys acknowledges the greeting with a nod of his own.

“Don’t mind them,” Missouri says over her shoulder. “They mean no harm, but it’s spring break, and there ain’t a thing for them to do.”

She walks up to a flimsy screen door, painted brown to blend in with the brick. The door’s rusty springs creak as Missouri props it open with her shoulder and fumbles for the key to the front door just behind it, all the while keeping one hand on the stroller. Dean steps in to hold the screen door, and seems to earn back some credit if Missouri’s grateful smile is anything to go by.

When Missouri finally gets the door open, Cas helps her lift the stroller over the threshold, his movements gentle so as not to disturb the sleeping girl.

Inside, nondescript doors line a hallway of bare concrete blocks. The overhead lights flicker and hum. Missouri leads the way to the third apartment on the left.

As soon as Dean steps inside, he notices a vaguely musty smell that could indicate mold, even if none is visible at first glance. While it’s clear that Missouri keeps the surfaces in her home spotless, there’s a big water stain on the ceiling and the countertop in the small kitchen opposite the front door is chipped.

“Sorry about the state of the place,” Missouri says as she unbuckles the little girl, who has woken up in spite of everyone’s best efforts. “The city’s supposed to maintain it in good condition, but, well.”

“Please don’t worry about us,” Cas says, and smiles at the little girl, who is eyeing both him and Dean cautiously. “Hello, Patience. My name is Cas. And that is Dean,” he adds, pointing.

Dean gives the girl a little wave, which causes her to dart behind her grandmother’s legs.

“Please take a seat.” Missouri gestures at a low couch covered with colorfully patterned blankets. “Anything I can offer you?”

She picks up the little girl and balances her on one hip, then moves to the kitchen unit and opens the fridge. “We’re fine, thanks,” Dean says, settling down next to Cas on the two-seater.

Missouri nods and steps out of the kitchen, a sippy cup in hand. She gently lowers Patience and her cup onto a play mat at the far end of the room before dropping into an armchair across from the couch with a heavy sigh. 

“So. You said you wanted to know about Gordon?”

Dean nods. Pulling his voice recorder out of his pocket, he asks, “Do you mind if I record this? That way, we can just chat, and I don’t have to worry about taking notes.”

Missouri nods her agreement, and Dean pushes the little red button. None of his sources have ever said no to being recorded, which is a damn good thing, because Dean doesn’t actually know shorthand.

“He hadn’t lived at Poe Homes long, right?” Dean prompts.

“Correct,” Missouri says, her tone clipped. “He’d only been here about three weeks. He was serving a life sentence, but the governor recently paroled him. Part of a general amnesty for older lifers, as I understand it.”

Dean feels a small sting of disappointment. It doesn’t sound as though Missouri or anyone else at Poe Homes would’ve known Gordon very well. “Did you ever happen to speak to him?”

Missouri nods. “A few times. I knew him before he was arrested.” She looks up at the ceiling, frowning. “Must have been nearly thirty years ago. We were… colleagues, you might say.”

Dean leans forward, trying and failing to conceal his eagerness. This is actually better than expected. “Colleagues? What line of work?”

Missouri’s expression shutters, and she suddenly looks forbidding. “That, I can’t tell you.”

In the awkward pause that follows, Dean feels Cas tensing up next to him. He can actually sense the moment Cas makes up his mind to speak.

“In the days before Gordon died,” Cas says, penetrating blue eyes trained squarely on Missouri’s. “Did you notice anything… different about him? Any odd behavior? Anything out of the ordinary at all?”

Something like surprise moves across Missouri’s face. She doesn’t answer at first. Her eyes are still fixed on Cas, studying him. Finally, she says, “Yes. For about a week before his death, Gordon was not himself.”

“How do you mean?” Dean asks, feeling like he should probably reassert himself. This technically being _his_ interview.

Missouri spares Dean a quick glance, but when she answers, her eyes are back on Cas. “I mean that he was possessed.”

They sit for a moment, Patience’s wordless babbling the only sound in the apartment. Dean swallows. “Like… _possessed_ possessed?”

Missouri gives Dean a flat look, like she’s starting to seriously doubt his mental capacity. “I don’t know what you mean by that, but if your question is, do I think Gordon Walker was possessed by a demon before his death, the answer is yes.”

Dean _really_ doesn’t know how to react to that. He’s usually good at rolling with the punches, but this interview is a new kind of crazy.

“You think the demon is the one who killed Gordon Walker?” Cas sounds merely curious, like talking about demons is all in a day’s work for him.

Missouri inclines her head thoughtfully. “Not precisely, no. I think the demon compelled Gordon to kill himself.” After another moment, she adds, “You see, a person who is possessed is not in control of their actions. And demons, they enjoy suffering and pain for their own sake. Causing someone’s death like that would be a sport for them.”

Finally, Dean’s brain decides to rejoin the conversation. “What makes you think Gordon was possessed?” 

“His aura,” Missouri says, a challenge written all over her face. “As you already think I’m crazy, Dean Winchester, I may as well tell you that I’m a psychic.”

Dean knows he should pack his stuff and leave right this fucking minute, because this woman is clearly unbalanced. But he can’t help asking the first question that occurs to him. “If you’re psychic, you would’ve known about Gordon’s death before it happened, right? So why didn’t you stop it?”

Missouri looks down at her lap, studying her fingernails. “I tried. I took measures to contain the demon, but they failed. It never stepped into the trap I’d set for it at Gordon’s apartment. I must have been… clumsy and given myself away somehow. In any case, that was the night the demon forced Gordon to walk into the building across the street and take his own life.” When she looks up, her eyes are immeasurably tired. “Gordon Walker’s death is my fault, just as much as it is that demon’s.”

Dean turns to Cas, meeting his eyes. He can tell they’re both thinking the same thing: high time to cut their losses and get out. There’s no way either one of them can print the statements of a woman who isn't in her right mind.

“Well,” Cas says, already rising from the couch. “Thank you very much for your time, Missouri. We should be on our way, but you’ve been very helpful.”

Dean rises too, but freezes when Missouri’s hand shoots out from her armchair to grab the sleeve of Cas’ coat. She looks up at Cas, her expression almost pleading. “I know you don’t believe a word I’m saying, either one of you. But I saw… I saw _you_ , Cas, come to harm at the demon’s hands. Not yet, but soon.”

Cas tries to pull away, but Missouri’s grip holds firm. “You’re a good man, I can tell. Please. Be careful.”

They walk out of the apartment at record speed, neither of them speaking until they’re back in the safety of the Impala.

Dean looks across the bench seat, then down at the steering wheel, pretending he hasn’t noticed that Cas’ hands are shaking. He doesn’t think Cas would thank him for drawing attention to it.

“I don’t know about you.” Dean’s tone is as light as he can make it. “But I could use a drink.”

***

By the time they leave Poe Homes, it’s almost five o’clock, and going back to the office seems pointless.

So when Dean suggests they head up to Hampden, the neighborhood where he lives, for dinner and drinks, Cas can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t.

Well, maybe one reason: Once again, he’s not sure whether he’s being asked on a date. This seems to be a theme of his and Dean’s acquaintance.

He decides to worry about that later and, for now, just enjoy a chance to spend more time with Dean and put the strange encounter with Missouri out of his mind.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean parks the Impala in front of a nondescript block of brick rowhouses, and they walk two blocks to Thirty-Sixth Street. It’s a brightly lit commercial drag crowded with bars, restaurants and shops. Even on a chilly spring evening, the sidewalks are bustling with a mix of young families out for a walk, groups of friends heading to happy hour, and street performers playing songs for spare change.

The whole scene is so colorful and busy, it almost seems impossible that they're still in the same city where Missouri is even now sitting in a water-damaged, rundown apartment, her young granddaughter breathing air that’s likely laced with mold spores. The same city where a man died a horrible death in an apartment building that was supposed to signal a turnaround, but instead became just another symbol of neglect.

A gentle shoulder bump from Dean tears Cas out of his reverie.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Dean says, raising his voice to be heard above a gaggle of chattering teenagers passing them on the sidewalk, to-go cups in hand. “I’ve lived in this city for almost twenty years, and I’m still not used to it. The way it can be so fucking depressing one minute, and the next it looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.”

Cas snorts, pointing at a building to their left whose front is adorned with a fairly unusual decoration. “I don’t know of any Norman Rockwell paintings that feature giant flamingo sculptures with… is that…”

“A blue beehive hairdo, yeah,” Dean says, sounding resigned. “John Waters hangs out in this neighborhood a lot, and everyone’s freaking obsessed with him. I’d bet ninety percent of the people around here who put plastic flamingos in their yard don’t know half the gross shit that happens in ‘Pink Flamingos.’”

Before Cas can ask Dean to elaborate, Dean grabs hold of his wrist and pushes him through the door of a nondescript-looking hole in the wall.

“Welcome to Frazier’s,” Dean says, grinning and waving when he spots a formidable-looking, middle-aged woman behind the bar.

“Evening, hon,” she says as Dean walks up to her, pulling him into a back-thumping hug. “Haven’t seen you in so long, I thought you’d gone and died in a ditch.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness to his expression. He turns to where Cas is still standing near the door and drags him closer by the sleeve of his coat. “Ellen, Cas. Cas, Ellen.”

Ellen looks Cas up and down, a wry grin on her face. “You seem like a nice boy. What the hell are you doing with _this_ hot mess?” She inclines her head at Dean, eyes sparkling.

“What she’s not telling you is that she half-raised me, so if I’m a hot mess, she’s got herself to blame.” Dean’s tone is easy, joking, but Cas can’t help notice there’s a tightness about his expression as he turns to settle at one of the booths across the room from the bar.

Cas takes a seat opposite Dean and looks around. The interior of Frazier’s is dimly lit, but clean and comfortable, giving it an air of intimacy. In pride of place behind the bar hangs a taxidermied stag head, flanked by neon signs advertising various local and national beers. The walls are lined with photographs and paintings of the neighborhood.

Almost as soon as they’ve sat down, Ellen drops off a couple of glasses of beer and heads back to her perch behind the bar. Cas frowns at the glass in front of him, then at Dean.

“Hope you like beer, Cas. Sorry, I didn’t think to ask.” Dean looks a little embarrassed. “This is my usual and Ellen probably figured you’d want the same. They make this less than a mile away, back in the area where I live,” he adds, pointing vaguely to his right.

“Don’t worry. I like beer just fine,” Cas says, taking a sip and relishing the crisp, slightly bitter taste. “So this is where you usually go for drinks?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, mostly. It’s one of the few places left where you can still get a decently priced drink or meal.”

“I take it the neighborhood wasn’t always like this?” Cas raises the glass to his lips again and drinks deep. It’s good beer, and it’s helping him chase away the last of his jitters from the unsettling trip to Poe Homes. Earlier, getting into Dean's car to drive up here, he thought he saw the shadowy outline of a man watching them from next to the empty apartment building. But here, with the benefit of a good drink and good company, he realizes it was probably nothing but his nerves, playing tricks on him.

Dean smiles ruefully. “Definitely not. When my family moved here, there were maybe a couple of shops, two or three dive bars and a methadone clinic.” Dean wipes his finger along the side of his glass to catch a bead of condensation. “Clinic’s still doing brisk business, but it’s next to a pretty amazing record store now.”

“It sounds like a change for the better,” Cas says, watching as Dean licks his lips before taking a sip of his drink.

“Yeah, I guess. Most storefronts aren’t empty anymore. New people are moving in and fixing up the old houses.” Dean pauses for a moment, studying his hands. “Here’s the thing. This used to be a factory workers’ neighborhood. With real factories. They’re all gone now, but the workers are still here. Bought their houses back when you could actually afford a mortgage on a blue-collar wage.”

Cas has a feeling Dean isn’t done, so he sits and waits, drinking in silence while Dean puts his thoughts in order.

“Up until recently, there were still a couple of places in the neighborhood that employed these guys. One made zip ties, the other was a bottling plant. The zip-tie factory got turned into luxury apartments last year, and the bottling plant closed down too, because some developer wants to open an indoor farmers’ market or some shit like that.”

Dean inclines his head at the bar. “Ellen was smart. She got out from under her factory job when the getting was good. Took over Frazier’s after the original owner retired.”

“You’re very close to her.” Cas doesn’t mean it as a question, and Dean doesn’t seem to take it as such.

“Yeah. She, um… she took care of me and Sammy after my dad…” Dean pauses. He looks at the wall, pretending to study some of the photographs. When he catches Cas’ eye again, he looks tired. “Look, um. I don’t really like talking about that stuff.” Dean hitches on a grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “So, Cas. Is that short for anything?”

Cas flinches. Dean has unknowingly put his finger on a subject that is very personal to _him_ , but he figures he owes it to Dean to open up a little, after steering the conversation into personal territory in the first place.

“Castiel,” he says, watching Dean’s face for the incredulous snort he knows is coming.

It doesn’t come. Instead, Dean smiles, and this time it looks genuine. “Castiel,” he says slowly, trying it out. “That’s nice. What does it mean?”

“It’s the name of an apocryphal angel.” Cas stares down at the foam spinning in his pint glass. “I haven’t gone by my full name in years. It reminds me of my family, which I’m just as reluctant to discuss as you are, apparently.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Cas fully expects Dean to look angry when their eyes meet. Instead, his glance is warm, open. 

“I can respect that,” Dean says softly. “But honestly, if you don’t mind sticking to my baby brother, Sammy, I could talk about him all day.”

And for a while, he does. All the way through the rest of their first beer and well into the second, Dean talks about Sam. How incredibly smart he is. How he got a full scholarship to college. How well he did on the LSATs. How he’s the most talented guy in the state’s attorney’s office.

All the while, Cas is drawn irresistibly to Dean’s enthusiasm. It’s almost hypnotic.

“I’m glad you invited me here. To your neighborhood,” he finds himself saying, his tongue loosened by his third beer of the night. He’s not exactly a lightweight, but they never did get around to eating anything aside from a plate of nachos. 

Dean watches Cas’ face intently for a moment or two. Then, he says, “You know, the neighborhood changing isn’t all bad. I didn’t mean to imply that it was.”

Cas takes another sip of his beer. “What are some things that you like about it?”

Dean suddenly looks shy, ducking his head and rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s, um. Well, before, you know, if I’d tried to… pick up guys… it would’ve been a lot harder.” He chuckles ruefully. “Probably would’ve gotten myself punched in the face.”

In the wake of Dean’s words, the air between them is suddenly heavy with tension. Cas swallows around a dry throat. “So now, you…”

That’s as far as he gets before Dean adds, “Not, um, not for a couple of years. I mean, not as often as I used to.” Now that Dean’s started talking, he seems unable to stop. “I mean, I like girls too, so I would, you know, stick to that when it seemed like I had to, but with the…”

Cas isn’t sure where he finds the courage, but he reaches out his hand and puts it on top of Dean’s where it’s resting next to his nearly empty glass. Dean cuts himself off mid-sentence, his body freezing up. Cas squeezes Dean’s fingers with his, then withdraws.

“Dean, you don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Cas is proud of how steady his voice is when his heart seems determined to jump up his throat. “I grew up in a very religious household, so picking up other men was hard to do for me as well. Even when I moved away from home, I never found it exactly… easy.” He blushes a little when he adds, “But I’m not a monk.”

They sit in silence as they both drain their glasses, darting occasional glances at each other.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says when the silence threatens to stretch on too long. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. If I’m totally honest, I… I was trying to find out if there was any chance that you were, um, interested. But I totally get if not. There’s no hard feelings at all.”

Cas should ask what exactly it is that _Dean_ is interested in. He should make sure they communicate clearly about each other’s expectations before anything else happens. Instead, he says, “I am. Interested.”

A shy smile edges onto Dean’s face. “Hey, you wanna get out of here?”

They finish their drinks and head out into the night.

***

_A knife in the dark._

_Brown eyes, frantically darting in their sockets, looking around for help that doesn’t come._

_A streetlight outside the window, illuminating a sign for a restaurant that’s long since closed._

Missouri wakes. Her heart sinks as she realizes that, once again, it is too late for her to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't catch the "Easter egg" in archofimagine's drawing for this chapter, take another look at the apartment complex on the left-hand side of the street.
> 
> Poe Homes is a real public-housing complex and yes, it’s next to Edgar Allan Poe’s former home. One of the highlights of the annual Poe festival is a reenactment of Poe’s funeral procession and wake, including a wax replica of his body.
> 
> Everything Dean tells Cas about the new apartment building next to Poe Homes is also true. The development, known as Center/West, still has yet to open.
> 
> Like Dean, I have a conflicted relationship with Hampden and the ways it’s been changing. Again, everything Dean says about the neighborhood is fact, including the methadone clinic next to a record store, and the fates of the last two factories in the area. (While the apartments in the zip-tie factory have opened, permanent plans for the bottling plant never materialized.)
> 
> The giant flamingo adorns the front of Café Hon. It doesn’t always have a blue beehive hairdo; sometimes it wears a feather boa or something holiday-themed.
> 
> If you’re ever in the neighborhood, your best chance of meeting John Waters is at the bar in back of Atomic Books on Falls Road. At least, it was in pre-COVID days.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean really _was_ going to ask Cas on a date. But he’s not the best at communicating with anyone, let alone people he’s developing a pretty serious crush on.

So instead of making plans for dinner or something in a couple of days, they’re walking back along Thirty-Sixth Street to Dean’s house, shoulders brushing with every other step, exchanging shy smiles.

Dean’s not really sure what’s going to happen when they get back to his place, and he still doesn’t know after they’ve walked through the front door. As a result, he hovers awkwardly, about six feet from Cas, who’s looking at his shoes.

At least Dean’s not the only one being awkward.

“You want, um. Can I offer you a drink?”

Cas nods gratefully and Dean heads to the kitchen. “Another beer? Or I’ve got whiskey too.”

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” Cas says, and Dean realizes he hasn’t even asked Cas to take off his coat or sit down.

“Hey, make yourself at home. There’s a coat closet by the door, and you can just have a seat on the couch. I mean, if you want.”

As Dean retrieves a couple of tumblers and the bottle of whiskey, it occurs to him that he’s never seen Cas without his coat on, because he definitely would’ve remembered. Under the coat, Cas is wearing dress pants that fit in all the right places, and a white dress shirt that’s showing off a slim but muscular build. Also, the combined effect of Cas’ slightly lopsided tie and disastrously messy hair is really working for Dean, apparently.

Willing his blood to flow back north, Dean pours a couple of fingers of whiskey into each glass and heads to the couch. Cas has taken a seat, but he’s still looking stiff and uncomfortable. Dean slumps onto the other end of the three-seater and angles one leg so he can face Cas, hoping this will help them both unclench.

He hands Cas one of the glasses, deliberately brushing his fingers just a little bit, testing the waters. Cas smiles his thanks and takes a sip, pulling a face at the burn. Dean chuckles, which makes Cas hum a small laugh back at him, and that’s it, the awkwardness is finally gone.

“See,” Cas says, “I told you. This kind of thing isn’t easy for me.”

“I’m not doing much better, in case you couldn’t tell.” Dean is definitely enjoying himself again though, the corners of his mouth lifting along with the weight on his chest. “I used to bring people home from bars all the time. More than I should probably be admitting to. But yeah, not so much lately.” He does some quick math while he sips at his whiskey. “God, I think it’s been almost two years.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

Before he responds, Dean takes a second just to look at Cas. He seems at ease now, loose and comfortable. He’s also mirrored Dean’s position so that they’re fully facing each other. 

“I… got tired of the morning after, I think. It was fun while it lasted, but it was always so damn depressing, waking up the next day with nothing to show for it.”

Dean has no idea why he’s telling Cas any of this. Sure, he’s had a few beers, but his tolerance is pretty high. There’s just something about this, about Cas, that seems to override all his usual instincts: to hide himself. Downplay things. Never reveal too much.

Despite all that, Dean figures it’s time to turn the tables on the personal questions. He takes another sip of his drink for courage. “You said you weren’t a monk.” Dean can feel himself blushing, but he soldiers on. “Were you dating anyone before you moved here?” Seeing Cas frown, he immediately backpedals. “I mean, if you don’t mind talking about that stuff. It’s totally fine if you do.”

Thankfully, Cas answers Dean’s fumbling with a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, Dean.”

And then he does that thing again where he just reaches out for Dean’s hand — resting loosely on his leg where it’s drawn up on the couch — and gives it a squeeze.

“I went through a breakup a few months before the move. He left… this is the part I don’t like to talk about, but it had to do with my parents.” Cas takes another sip and withdraws his hand, frowning again. “You have to understand that they considered me a sinner. They refused to acknowledge Inias as my partner, and my mother in particular would come to the house once or twice a month with these women she wanted me to date. It was a difficult situation. I don’t blame him.”

Dean wants to change the subject and wipe that faraway look off Cas’ face, but he can’t help himself; if it’ll let him even start to figure this guy out, he wants the whole story. “Is that why you moved?”

“I moved to get away from my parents,” Cas says quietly. He downs the rest of his shot, setting the empty glass down on the coffee table. “I’d wanted to do that for years, but I stayed for Inias. When we broke up… well.”

Cas won’t look at Dean now, and it’s more than Dean can stand. He sets his glass down next to Cas’. Slowly, carefully, he edges forward and moves his hand to where Cas’ arm is resting on the back of the couch.

His heart beating a little faster, he strokes gently up Cas’ forearm. Cas has the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, so Dean can see the hairs on his arm rise in response to the touch.

“I’m really sorry. That must have sucked.” The words come out almost as a whisper. “I never came out to my parents because…” This part is hard to talk about, but he needs to give Cas _something_ here. “Because my mom died before I’d really figured myself out. And after that, my dad, well, he started drinking even more than he used to, and he just kind of disappeared from my life. Didn’t seem worthwhile to try to explain myself to him.”

With a little jolt of nervousness, Dean looks up to find Cas staring at him intently. He watches as Cas raises his hand and brings it to the side of Dean’s neck, his thumb rubbing a gentle circle just below Dean’s ear.

Dean leans forward a little bit more, his face inches from Cas. “Do you mind?” 

Instead of answering, Cas uses the hand on Dean’s neck to pull him in. Soft, full lips are touching Dean’s own, gently, almost asking permission.

Dean raises his hand to the side of Cas’ face, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Cas opens to him and Dean slips his tongue inside. The kiss tastes like beer and whiskey and a long, strange day, but Dean’s whole body lights up with the contact. His blood hums in his veins and he instinctively moves even closer to Cas, wanting to curl around every part of him.

When the kiss breaks, they’re both breathing noticeably faster, but Dean’s smiling so hard it almost hurts, and Cas’ answering smile is just as bright. Dean rests their foreheads together. He kind of wants to keep kissing, but that might lead to other things, and it somehow doesn’t seem like that should be where this evening is headed.

“That was nice,” Cas says in that gravelly voice of his, and Dean can’t help the small shiver that runs all over his skin in response. Time to pump the brakes.

“It really was,” he agrees, running his thumb over Cas’ cheek. “You wanna stay a little while longer? We could watch a movie or something.”

Cas nods, and Dean puts on the first thing that looks good, but he barely pays attention. It's hard to focus on anything else when Cas is burrowing into the crook of his arm, warm and solid.

Cas never does leave. They both wake up on the couch the next morning with aches and pains all over and big grins on their faces.

***

It’s eight in the morning, five hours since the vision, but Missouri still feels as though she could vibrate out of her skin. It’s never easy, having a premonition of death. It’s harder when it’s a death she has no way of preventing.

Sometimes, like last night, she’s helpless because she sees the killing as it happens. A cruel window into inevitable tragedy.

Other times, it’s that people won’t believe her. That’s what happened two years ago, with James.

She’ll be the first to admit she was a poor mother to him. When he was a little boy, Missouri was always on the road, hunting the things that hide in dark alleys and prey on the weak.

James was often scared for her. When he grew up, that fear turned to anger and resentment; a conviction that his mother had imposed an especially elaborate delusion on him. He left her house the day he turned eighteen, calling her a fraud.

Missouri cut off all contact with her old network of hunters and begged James to reconsider.

He did not.

She learned from friends that he had moved across the city and married a woman named Tess. They had a little girl.

A few months after the girl’s birth, Missouri woke, bathed in sweat, her mind thrumming with the sound of bullets tearing through flesh.

James still had his old cell phone number. Missouri called it that day, frantic, begging her son not to leave the house.

James and Tess died that afternoon, at 3:02 p.m., hit by gunfire from a passing car. A probable case of mistaken identity, the police told her. She still calls every week, asking for updates on the case, even knowing it won’t do any good. The detective stopped returning her messages long ago.

It turned out that Tess’ parents were both deceased, and Missouri was her granddaughter’s next of kin. A small mercy; a peace offering from the universe, perhaps.

If so, it was short-lived. Because now, a demon has walked into Missouri’s carefully constructed illusion of normalcy. And it has killed again.

The hunters Missouri used to know are all dead, or have changed their phone numbers. Hunters are transitory loners by nature; hard to keep track of. If Gordon’s death proves anything, it’s that Missouri was foolish to think she could still match wits with a demon.

She calls in an anonymous tip to the police to distract herself from these dark thoughts. She couldn’t prevent this latest death, but she can at least ensure that the man’s body will not be left to rot.

Even now, however, the unease doesn’t leave her. After two more hours of fretting, she realizes there is another thing left to be done.

Her mind wanders back to her recent visitors, and to the vision that has not yet come to pass. The man she may still be able to save if she tries hard enough. Blue eyes and a trench coat.

Cas Novak, she remembers. Baltimore Brain. She types the words into her phone, and a contact page appears in the search results. There is a number. Missouri dials it.

On the third ring, she hears a shuffling sound, followed by a gravelly “Hello?”

“Mr. Cas Novak?”

“Yes, who is this?” There is distraction and laughter in the voice.

“This is Missouri Moseley. You came to see me yesterday.”

After a brief moment of silence, the voice at the other end is suddenly serious, earnest. “I remember. How are you?”

Missouri smiles approvingly. She knew this one had good manners. “I’m doing fine. I apologize if I startled you yesterday.”

“I should be apologizing to you,” Cas says, his tone an unusual blend of formality and warmth. “Dean and I left rather quickly. It was impolite after you offered us hospitality.”

“Don’t think anything of it.” Missouri squares her shoulders, steeling herself. “The reason I called is to ask you one more time to be careful. The demon killed again last night, and it’s only a matter of time—“

Apparently forgetting all politeness, Cas interrupts. “What do you mean, the demon killed again?”

“Exactly what I said.” Missouri closes her eyes, willing herself to sound calm, sane. “Please. Please be on your guard.”

*** 

When Cas wakes, he thinks his worst problem of the day will be a slight crick in his neck.

It’s to be expected, considering he managed to fall asleep on a couch, his head on Dean’s chest. But a few aches are more than manageable in exchange for a soft good-morning kiss and Dean’s quiet smiles as he bustles around the kitchen making coffee, bacon and pancakes.

Just as they finish their food and Cas starts to remind himself that he should leave (even while his uncooperative brain keeps supplying reasons to stay), his phone rings.

Out of habit, Cas picks up, then is immediately distracted when Dean makes ridiculous faces at him from where he’s rinsing dishes in the kitchen sink.

 _“Please. Please be on your guard.”_ The words echo through his head, leeching away the color and lightness of the morning.

The call disconnects, and Cas moves automatically to drop his phone onto Dean’s kitchen table. He meets Dean’s eyes, watching as the smile slides from them.

“What’s wrong, Cas? Bad news?”

“It was Missouri. She says there’s been another killing like Gordon’s. And Meg’s.”

“Oh, was it the _demon_ again?” Dean’s voice sounds mocking, but he seems to regret his tone when he catches sight of Cas’ expression.

“Hey,” Dean says, drying his hands on a dish towel and walking over to put a hand on Cas’ neck. The small touch is strangely comforting, and Cas tilts his head up to look at Dean.

“Don’t let that lady freak you out. She’s clearly three fries short of a Happy Meal.”

“She just... she doesn't seem...” Cas looks down at his hands, watching them fidget with his phone, but Dean squats down to catch his eye again. His expression is determined, every line of his body angled to show that he’s taking charge of the situation. Cas wishes he had the words to say how much he appreciates it. Instead, he says, "She seems so sure of her story."

Dean looks back at him for another moment, eyes searching Cas' face. Then, he straightens and walks back to the kitchen.

“Here’s what we’ll do. I have a friend who’s a homicide detective, and she usually works Saturdays. I’ll call her right now to see if she’s heard of another case with self-inflicted wounds and sulfur at the scene.”

Cas nods his assent. He doesn’t point out that even if Dean’s friend hasn’t heard of another body, it doesn’t necessarily prove anything. It could simply mean the body hasn’t been found.

Dean makes the call. Cas is too distracted to pay attention to what’s being said, but when Dean hangs up the phone, he doesn’t look happy.

Cas sits up, nervous energy dancing across his skin like small prickles of electricity. “What?”

Dean runs a hand over his face, pulling at the skin. “There’s definitely been another killing with the same M.O. Someone called in an anonymous tip about it a couple of hours ago. Crime scene techs just got back to the station.”

Cas’ throat feels dry. “What now?”

“Now,” Dean says, exhaling heavily, “I think we need to start considering the idea that it’s Missouri killing these people.”

“What?”

“Think about it,” Dean says, slumping into the chair across the table from Cas. “How the hell would she know someone’s been killed if it only happened last night? If BPD didn’t even know until earlier this morning? And we already know she knew Gordon.”

“Why would she call to let me know she killed someone?”

Dean shrugs. “Who knows. Killing people and coating their clothes with sulfur ain’t exactly the work of a sane person.”

Cas frowns at a spot on the tabletop, at war with himself. What Dean is saying certainly makes more sense than the thought forming in the back of his mind. And yet…

He looks up. “What if Missouri is telling the truth?”

“What? She can see the future, and the guy killing people is an actual demon? The kind with horns and pitchforks? C’mon, Cas.” Dean looks genuinely worried now. Which reminds Cas that, despite their instinctive rapport, Dean hasn’t known him very long and has very little reason to trust Cas’ gut instincts.

“I just have a feeling about this,” Cas says anyway. “And my feelings are usually right. So I’m heading to the crime scene to see what I can find out. You can come, or not.”

Dean stares at him, his jaw actually dropping. “You remember this is still technically _my_ story, right?”

Cas shrugs, then gets up and goes to retrieve his coat. “ _Gordon_ was your story. I was the one who first wrote about Meg’s murder. I have as much right to cover this as you do.”

Eyes blazing, Dean stalks over to the door, effectively blocking Cas from leaving. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“I’ve been told before,” Cas says, voice as cold as he can make it when those infuriatingly distracting freckles are right in front of his face.

“You don’t even know where they found the body,” Dean shoots back, settling against the door and crossing his arms.

“I have contacts at BPD, same as you do.”

Dean looks wrong-footed, as though he hadn’t considered that, which is sufficiently endearing that Cas’ anger ratchets down a little.

A sudden, triumphant grin splits Dean’s face, and he clearly thinks he’s found the winning argument. “It’s in Upper Fells, and _you_ don’t have a car. It’d take you hours to get there from here because public transportation in this city fucking sucks.”

Cas isn’t even slightly ready to admit defeat, so he raises a single eyebrow at Dean — a well-practiced trick that’s persuaded several interview subjects to reveal more than they meant to. “I could call an Uber.”

Dean moves away from the door, but only far enough to retrieve his jacket from the front closet and grab his car keys from the side table next to the door. “I’m giving you a ride, and you’re going to like it.”

“Fine,” Cas says, putting in a supreme effort to keep the corners of his mouth from curving up.

“Fine,” Dean shoots back, but Cas could swear he sees the beginnings of a smile as Dean turns away.


	6. Chapter 6

Once upon a time, Fells Point was a place of sailors and prostitutes, staggering drunk through the cobblestone streets. The sailors and prostitutes are (mostly) gone, but drunk staggering is still what the neighborhood’s known for.

Of course, the cobblestone streets are now lined with Irish pubs, high-concept bars, restaurants and one hotel-slash-steakhouse so fancy, Dean’s never even dared to peek past the entrance.

Sleek black-and-gold water taxis disgorge neverending crowds of tourists and partygoers onto the Fells Point waterfront all weekend, while bulky cargo ships — the city’s bread and butter — cut a stately path through the harbor in the distance. 

Just a few blocks north along Broadway, it’s a different story.

Upper Fells Point used to be heavily Eastern European, mostly Polish. Over the years, as those families fled the city for the suburbs, Central American immigrants took their place. But their numbers weren’t ever quite enough to fill all the empty houses and storefronts, and so, Upper Fells has more than its fair share of vacant houses, quietly falling apart behind the crooked plywood nailed to their doors and windows.

Regardless, it's easy to spot the vacant they’re looking for. Right on Broadway, two blocks north of Eastern Avenue — the unofficial divider between “good” Fells and “shady” Fells — sits an empty commercial space. There’s a sign above the front door advertising “Papi’s Tacos,” but the paint is peeling so badly that Papi’s luck clearly turned sour some years ago.

The real giveaway is the yellow crime-scene tape stretching all along the sidewalk in front of the building, cutting off access. Dean trades a look with Cas and pulls into the nearest parking space. One perk of living in a city that’s lost several hundred thousand residents over the past few decades: easy parking.

As they get out of the car, Cas freezes, staring at a doorway down the block. Dean walks over and nudges Cas’ shoulder. “You good?”

“Yes,” Cas says absently, still looking at the doorway. “I thought I saw…” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Just my imagination. Let’s go.”

They head across the street, to where the yellow tape is fluttering in the slight breeze blowing up from the waterfront.

A bored-looking beat cop is next to it, leaning against his patrol car and glancing around occasionally to make sure no one’s getting too close to the crime scene. Dean’s apparently earned good karma somehow, because he knows the guy. It’s Victor Henriksen, a casual friend of Jo’s who sometimes comes around for poker nights at her place. This officially puts Dean one up on Cas. Of course, he would only know that if he was petty enough to keep track.

“Hey, Vic,” Dean grins as he saunters over, charm turned up to eleven. “How’ve you been?”

“Dean.” Vic taps an ironic finger to the front of his hat. “You here in an official capacity? Jo did say you were moving in on Donna’s beat.”

“She did _not_.” Dean is definitely going to pay Jo back for gossiping.

“He’s here with me,” Cas rumbles as he steps out from behind Dean, squinting at Vic, who has several inches on him. “I’m covering this story for the Baltimore Brain. What can you tell me about the victim?”

Vic looks vaguely alarmed to be on the receiving end of Cas’ squinty glare. “You’d have to talk to our public affairs officer about that.”

Cas gives an extremely eloquent eye roll. “I’m not asking you to reveal state secrets. Just tell me whether the victim has been identified.”

“He has.”

Dean and Cas whip around, equally startled by the man who's managed to walk up behind them unnoticed. It’s an impressive move, considering his sturdy, solid build. His heavy canvas jacket and flannel shirt have Dean pegging him as a likely port worker, although his short, well-maintained beard and neatly barbered hair make him a lot more well-groomed than most of those guys. Dean would know. He’s met plenty of them, hanging out with his dad at the VFW Hall.

“He was my brother,” the man says quietly, brown eyes fixed on the open door of the vacant restaurant. “Alonso Cuevas.”

“I’m really sorry for your loss. Name’s Dean,” Dean says, offering his hand. The man looks up at him in surprise, but accepts the handshake.

“Cesar,” he says. The slight roll to his r’s and the way he stretches his vowels suggest he’s a native Spanish speaker. Probably Mexican or Salvadoran, like most people around here, Dean figures.

“This here’s Cas.” Dean points vaguely to where Cas is still standing next to Vic. He might be a little annoyed with Cas for being an ass about who should or shouldn't be covering the story, but he's not enough of an ass to shut him out of a conversation with a potential source.

To his credit, Cas says, “My condolences,” like he means it and shakes hands with Cesar as well.

“Listen, Cesar,” Vic pipes up. “These guys are reporters. You better watch what you say around them before it ends up printed.”

Dean glares at Vic and is pleased to see Cas doing the same.

“Shut up,” Dean says casually before he turns back to Cesar. “He’s right. We’re reporters, but we’d never ask you questions without identifying ourselves first. And we understand if you’re not in the mood to be interviewed right now.”

Cesar huffs, but his lips barely twitch. “The shit I’d tell you, you wouldn’t believe anyway.”

“Try us,” Cas says. Dean pivots, staring him down, and Cas raises both hands in a “fine, I’ll back off” gesture.

But Cesar is focused on the door of the restaurant again. When he speaks, there’s a faraway quality to his voice, as though he’s barely conscious of what he’s saying.

“Alonso just came to the States a couple weeks ago. I sponsored him on a family visa. Got him a job at the port.” Cesar rubs at his cheek, looking bone-weary. “He seemed to like it, but then he just stopped showing up.”

“When was this?” Cas asks, seemingly unable to stop himself from snapping back into reporting mode.

Cesar glances at Cas briefly before returning his attention to the empty doorway of the restaurant. “About a week ago. I was ready to report him missing after a couple days, but then I ran into him in the street. He… he seemed…”

“Not like himself,” Cas says quietly, and Cesar’s eyes dart to his face, surprised.

“Yeah. That’s it. He wasn’t himself. Was his face, and his voice, but… different, somehow.” Cesar swallows heavily. “Then, just before he walked away, I thought I saw…”

“What?” Dean prompts.

“Nah, it’s bullshit.” Cesar shakes his head at his heavy work boots. “I was seeing things.”

“Please tell us,” Cas says. “None of this is going to be printed. We’re just talking.”

Cesar looks Cas up and down, considering. Finally, he says, “Alonso’s eyes. The whites of them were gone. There was just... black.”

***

Cas usually spends his weekends picking up shifts at Tran’s, and this weekend is no different. It's Sunday night, shortly after nine p.m., and Cas is perched on the well-worn, rickety stool behind the store's counter, chuckling quietly to himself as he reads back over his message thread with Dean.

They've been texting back and forth since their trip to Fells Point, and last night, Cas was treated to a play-by-play of Dean's encounter with two drunks who had tried to start a fight with each other in Dean’s front yard. Neither of them had, apparently, been sufficiently coordinated to land even a single punch. In the end, they'd just gone home, arms around each other, their previous disagreement apparently forgotten in a haze of booze-induced bonhomie.

Cas looks up from his phone screen when the bell above the front door chimes. The night felt mild when Cas walked to work, but a cold breeze blows into the store now through the open door, making him shiver.

He looks up, and a man is standing in front of him. Tran’s is a small store, but the man must have moved unusually fast to get all the way to the back so quickly. Cas doesn’t remember seeing _any_ movement.

Pushing down his vague unease, Cas hitches on his customer service smile. “Welcome to Tran’s. What can I do for you?”

The man says nothing at first. His eyes drag up and down Cas’ body, the movement overly familiar, almost obscene. Eventually, the man’s gaze comes to rest on the name tag pinned to the front of Cas’ vest. “Hello there, Cas.”

There is something nasal and insinuating about the man’s voice. Swallowing, Cas takes in the yellow tint of his skin and the greasy grey-brown of his thinning hair. The man’s beard is short, but ill-kempt; the murky brown of his eyes reminiscent of dirty pond water. He doesn’t look particularly strong, but he’s tall, his limbs long and thin. In a fight, they might be almost evenly matched.

Cas shakes himself and takes a breath, forcing his heartbeat to slow. “Hello. What can I do for you?” he asks again, careful to remain polite.

The man’s face splits into a sneer, baring the glint of his canines. “Saw you outside Missouri’s apartment, blue-eyes. And again in the place where poor, unfortunate Alonso met his end.” He taps his left forefinger against his lips, a mockery of thoughtfulness. “I’m thinking I’ll add you to my little collection. Because, see, I appreciate what a beautiful boy can do for me. And I just _know_ I’d look amazing inside you.”

The second the man steps forward, Cas’ hand moves instinctively to the shotgun on the shelf behind him.

The doorbell chimes again.

A couple walks in, arms wrapped around each other, probably drunk and looking for a snack. Relief hits Cas so strongly, his knees almost buckle under him.

He turns back to face the man and freezes. The watery brown and jaundiced white of his eyes is gone, replaced by unbroken pools of midnight black.

Cas' heart beats a frantic, irregular tattoo against his ribs. His breath is coming fast and shallow, lungs fighting for air in the face of the man's menacing, obsidian gaze.

“Be seeing you, Cas,” the black-eyed man says, and turns to go.

The couple’s laughter dies in their throats as he walks by, leaving another cold breeze in his wake.

Swaying and dithering, the couple mills around the narrow aisles for a few more minutes, then heads back into the night without buying anything. 

As soon as he's alone in the store again, Cas pulls out his phone. Not giving himself time for second guesses, he dials, noticing absently that his hands are shaking.

Dean picks up on the third ring. “Hey, Cas!” He sounds cheerful, pleased. “How’s it going?”

Cas swallows hard, trying to get his nerves back under control. “Dean, I… something happened, and I don’t think I should be walking home alone.”

“I’ll come pick you up. I’ll leave right now. Text me the address.” There isn’t the slightest bit of hesitation in Dean’s voice. “Will you be OK until I get there?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas says, a warm glow spreading through his chest. “I’ll be fine.”

As soon as Dean hangs up, Cas picks up the phone again and dials another number.

***

The sound of her phone startles Missouri out of her thoughts. She sets down her tumbler of gin and moves as quickly as she can from her armchair to the kitchen counter, where her phone is resting. Patience is finally asleep, but the ringing might wake her if it goes on too long.

The number on the screen is unfamiliar, but there’s a vague prodding in Missouri’s chest, telling her to pick up anyway.

“Hello?”

“Missouri? This is Cas. Cas Novak.”

Missouri takes a moment to move back to the armchair, sitting down with a relieved exhale. “Cas. It’s good to hear from you. What can I do for you?”

“I need your help,” Cas says. He hides it well, but there’s a slight edge to his voice that speaks of fear. “I need you to tell me more about demons.”

**END PART I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to the owners of Papi’s Tacos, which is actually a thriving business.
> 
> That said, all the other information about the geography, history and character of the Fells Point neighborhood is accurate.
> 
> The hotel/steakhouse Dean mentions is The Sagamore Pendry, housed in an old pier that was used as the location of the police precinct on the TV show Homicide: Life on the Streets.


	7. Chapter 7

**PART II**

Dean is out the door in less than a minute, breaking every traffic law known to man on the way to the address Cas texted him.

It turns out to belong to a small corner store in Charles Village called Tran’s. Dean parks across the street and heads inside, letting himself breathe again when he spots Cas sitting behind the counter.

Dean’s arrival has set off the bell above the front door, and Cas’ head snaps up at the sound. With some unease, Dean notices there’s a shotgun resting across his lap.

“Holy crap, Cas,” he says, looking back and forth between Cas and the gun. “What happened?”

Cas walks out from behind the counter, not letting go of the weapon. Without so much as acknowledging Dean’s presence, he moves past him and to the door, locking it.

Finally, he turns around and his eyes meet Dean’s. “Hello, Dean.”

“Um. Hi.” Dean steps forward slowly, both hands in front of him, and disentangles Cas’ fingers from the shotgun. Gingerly, he lowers it to the floor. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Cas bites his bottom lip, hands balled into fists. His entire body looks rigid with tension. “I will. Later. For now, can you just…” Cas hesitates, looking out into the night through the protective metal lattice covering the glass door. “I don’t think I want to be alone.”

Hoping he isn’t seriously misreading what Cas is asking for, Dean says, “Sure, Cas. You can crash with me. Plenty of room at my house. Don’t even worry about it.”

When Cas looks back at him, his eyes are wide and soft with relief. On reflex, Dean steps forward and folds his arms around Cas’ shoulders, holding him tight. For just a moment, Cas stiffens. Then, he brings up his arms to wrap around Dean’s waist and melts into the touch.

After what has to be close to a full minute, Dean says, “So, um. Your shift. When d’you get off? Can you leave now?”

Cas nods into Dean’s shoulder, mumbling, “I called Mrs. Tran to let her know I needed to go. Sunday nights are quiet. She doesn’t mind me closing up a little early.”

Dean lets go then, but watches closely as Cas counts the money in the register and fills out a ledger. Finally, Cas gathers up the shotgun and leaves it behind the counter.

He briefly unlocks the door so they can leave, then locks it again behind them. As the final order of business, Cas pulls down the metal security gate and locks that too, looking both ways down the sidewalk as he does so.

Dean can’t help looking too, the strange, jerky tension in Cas’ every movement starting to infect him. “Cas, you’re kinda freaking me out. What’s going on?”

Cas just shakes his head, heading across the street to the Impala.

On the way back to Dean’s house, they barely speak. But halfway through the drive, Cas reaches across the bench seat and takes hold of Dean’s hand. He doesn’t let go until they pull up.

With an uncanny sense of déjà vu, Dean locks the front door behind him and once again feels a little awkward when he sees Cas standing about six feet away, still in his coat.

“Well, um,” Dean fumbles, scratching at the back of his neck. “Make yourself comfortable, I guess. I’ve got towels and a spare toothbrush. I’ll take the couch and you can have the bed. It’s no—”

“Dean.” Cas’ eyes are steady now, dark and determined. “If you have no objections, I’d like to share your bed tonight.”

Dean swallows. “No. No objections here, Cas. Did you want to borrow—”

“I’d also,” Cas says, “like to have sex with you.”

Dean is surprised to find that his feet are already moving toward Cas. Cas meets him halfway, shucking his coat before he cups Dean’s face in both hands and brings their lips together.

He barely has time to catch his breath before Cas is licking at the seam of his lips. Dean’s mouth opens without a thought, his hands clutching Cas’ hips hard enough to bruise. 

Cas walks them back a few steps until they’re at the door again, Dean’s back pressed against it. When Cas has him well and truly boxed in, he rolls his hips, grinding the bulge in his jeans against Dean’s thigh. Dean moans, pushing back to get some friction on his own cock, which is straining against his jeans, demanding to be touched.

“Dean,” Cas whispers into the skin just below Dean’s ear.

“Yeah?”

“I had a bad night. Something happened that scared me and made me feel like I wasn’t in control. I don’t want to feel that way anymore.”

Cas shifts a little, just enough to make sure their hips are lined up. When he pushes forward again, their cocks brush together, and Dean’s profoundly grateful that Cas’ weight against him is basically holding him up. He’s not sure he could do it on his own power.

“Can you help me with that?” Cas murmurs, hot breath tickling Dean’s neck.

“Yeah.” Dean nods frantically. “Anything you want, Cas.”

Cas steps back and unbuttons his blue uniform vest, dropping it on the floor. He takes another step away from Dean, walking backwards in the direction of the stairs as he undoes the buttons of his shirt.

Dean lets the sight of Cas pull him along, toeing off his shoes and socks as he goes.

At the bottom of the stairs, their lips meet again, Dean’s hands wandering up the warm, smooth skin on Cas’ back. Cas pushes at Dean’s jacket and flannel, and Dean pulls them off, dropping them unceremoniously at their feet.

“Hang on a sec,” Dean says. “I really wanna take this upstairs, but you’ll need to watch where you’re going. Those stairs are deadly.”

Cas grumbles, but, after another kiss that has heat shooting straight to Dean’s groin, he lets go and steps aside, letting Dean lead the way.

Halfway up the stairs, Dean feels an impatient hand groping at his ass, and smirks. “Hold your horses there, Cas. We’ve got all night.”

“Exactly,” Cas growls behind him. “If we hurry, we can do this twice.”

And that’s it, Dean’s done being coy. As soon as they’re through the door of his bedroom, he pulls off his undershirt, then gets to work on Cas’ belt and zipper. Cas reaches over to return the favor, his obvious impatience making the job harder than it needs to be. When their pants and boxers are finally gone, puddled in a messy heap on the floor, Cas takes a step back, dragging his eyes up and down Dean’s body.

A little embarrassed at the scrutiny, Dean covers his length with one hand, pumping slowly.

Cas seems to like what he sees though. “God, look at you,” he says, sounding awed.

The only light in the room is a small bedside lamp, but it’s definitely enough for a good view, and Dean very much appreciates that fact as he takes in the sight before him. Cas’ skin is a little more tanned than Dean’s, and his midsection is a little slimmer. His limbs are lean but muscular, with strong thighs that suggest a running habit. His cock is thick and blood-flushed, curving slightly upwards. Dean licks his lips at the sight and realizes he can’t wait another second to get his hands on it.

Dean grabs Cas’ hand and pulls. They fall back onto the bed, Cas on top and using his advantage to kiss, lick and nip at every inch of Dean’s neck and chest he can reach.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean murmurs into messy brown hair. “Touch me. Need you to touch me.”

Cas grins up at him wickedly, skirting Dean’s groin in favor of lifting up one of his legs and licking a long stripe up the inside of his thigh. Dean's back arches off the bed, his breath hitching as Cas ghosts long, strong fingers up Dean’s achingly hard cock. “Do you have any condoms? And lube?”

Dean nods fervently, and points to the right. “Bedside table. Top drawer.”

Cas raises himself on hands and knees, crawling back up to Dean’s face and trailing kisses along his jawline. “Good. That’s good. I’d really like to fuck you if that’s alright.”

“Oh, fuck,” Dean breathes, trying to hold on to the last vestiges of his sanity. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”

Even with his eyes closed, he’d be able to sense Cas’ smug expression as he reaches for the drawer, dropping a condom and a small bottle of lube onto the sheets next to Dean.

Dean runs his hands up Cas’ sides as Cas pops the bottle cap, squeezing out a generous amount of liquid and warming it between his hands.

Cas leans in for another kiss as his fingers move toward Dean’s opening, teasing and massaging the tight ring of muscle.

Dean tenses briefly when Cas pushes in, up to the first knuckle, but he soon relaxes into the stretch. As Cas adds another finger, then another, whispering praise and encouragement in Dean’s ear, Dean lets himself float, dissolving on a warm tide of pleasure.

“I’m good, Cas. All good. Want you inside me.”

Instead of withdrawing his fingers, Cas curls them so they brush across Dean’s prostate, drawing a sharp moan.

“Wouldn’t want to keep you waiting,” Cas mumbles against Dean’s thigh. His voice sounds calm and composed, but it’s bottomless with arousal, and there's a hungry gleam in his eyes.

When Cas withdraws his fingers and leans back, Dean chases after him, unwrapping the condom and taking his sweet time sliding it down Cas’ hot, hard length.

He watches as Cas’ eyes track the movement and relishes the small gasp he gets when he coats his own fingers with lube and strokes up and down Cas’ cock with a slow, sure touch.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he breathes against Cas’ lips. “Let’s do this.”

Dean lies back and lets Cas slot himself between his knees. Cas lines himself up with Dean’s hole and, with an agonizingly slow movement, slides inside, inch by inch. Cas’ breath is coming faster now, a drawn-out, ragged moan escaping him.

Dean focuses on breathing in and out as he feels Cas fill him up. When Cas bottoms out, he stills, and Dean's world narrows to the place where their bodies are connected.

“Feels so good,” Cas pants. “So good, Dean. So hot and tight for me.”

Dean pushes up with his hips, drawing another moan from Cas. “Move, Cas. I need you to move.” 

Cas sets a slow pace at first, getting them used to each other’s rhythm. After a couple of thrusts, though, he speeds up, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh fills the room.

Dean feels every muscle in his body seize with pleasure when Cas adjusts his angle and starts to brush against Dean’s sweet spot.

“Dean.” Cas bends forward, panting into Dean’s mouth. “God, I’m close already. So close.”

“Me too,” Dean whispers, pulling Cas into a messy, sloppy kiss. “Come for me, Cas. I want you to.”

Cas nods and picks up the pace even more while Dean reaches between them and works himself with quick, desperate strokes. Within moments, the warm knot of pleasure curling inside him unfurls, and he releases all over his own stomach and Cas’ chest with a drawn-out moan.

Cas’ rhythm falters, and with a shout of “Dean,” he’s coming too, collapsing onto Dean’s chest as he rides the aftershocks.

“Fuck,” Dean mumbles, running a soothing hand up and down Cas’ back.

Cas just nods against Dean’s chest, apparently still incapable of speech.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dean pants, trying to catch his breath. “Doing that twice sounds amazing, but I might need a couple days to recover first.”

Cas looks up, resting his chin on his arms where they’re folded across Dean’s chest. “What if I said I wanted to ride you next time?”

Dean’s cock gives a hopeful twitch at that, and sure, maybe this could work after all.

***

The next morning, Dean drives Cas back home. When Cas walks in the door, it’s early enough that he wouldn’t be late to the Brain’s office if he left within the next half hour. But he has other plans today.

He calls Dumah and tells her he’s feeling sick. Then, he brews a pot of coffee, and he waits.

On the ride to Cas’ apartment, Dean had asked again about the events of the previous night. Cas found himself reluctant to share exactly what he saw, so he spun a half-truth about a man coming to the store and making threatening remarks. He nodded along quietly to Dean’s concerned suggestions about asking the neighborhood beat cop to stop by during Cas’ next shift, or barring the man from the store.

Cas certainly _wants_ to tell Dean about the man’s eyes; the unsettling air of cold and dread surrounding him. But Dean seems so sure that Missouri’s stories of demons and visions are delusional.

Perhaps it’s better for him to go on believing that.

An hour later, there’s a knock at his apartment door. After a quick glance through the peephole, Cas unlocks the door to reveal Missouri just outside, carrying a bulky gym bag.

“Thank you for coming, Missouri,” he says, stepping aside to let her in.

“Of course, dear.” She pats his cheek as she passes and moves straight to the small, slightly wobbly kitchen table, depositing her bag. “I’m glad you’re letting me help you.”

“Where is Patience?” Cas asks as he pours them each a cup of coffee.

“I was able to leave her with one of my neighbors,” Missouri says, accepting the warm mug with a grateful smile. “This will not be a conversation fit for a child’s ears.”

Cas nods, swallowing down his nerves. “You said you would show me how to defend myself,” he says. He's always believed in coming straight to the point.

Missouri nods, breathing in the fragrant steam from her mug with a rapturous expression. “You make good coffee.”

Cas inclines his head to acknowledge the compliment, but doesn’t say anything further.

Finally, Missouri sighs. “If you insist, we’ll move on to less pleasant matters.” She fixes Cas with a penetrating stare. “What you have to understand, Cas, is that a fight with a demon is never a fair fight. They’re physically stronger than humans, and they’re not afflicted with the scruples of us ordinary mortals.”

“I understand,” Cas says, but grips his mug a little tighter, trying to ground himself in its solid warmth.

“Do you?” Missouri frowns at him, considering. “Because what I’m telling you is that a demon knows no mercy or remorse. Pleading with it will do you no good. And once you’re possessed, you will have no control over your actions. If the demon is so inclined, it can make you kill yourself, as it did Gordon. Or, perhaps worse, it could make you hurt or kill your loved ones.”

Cas’ heart sinks as he thinks back to the previous night. Green eyes, sparkling with laughter and affection. His own hands, running over freckled skin, giving pleasure.

He imagines those same hands curled around Dean’s throat, squeezing. Imagines himself watching helplessly through his own eyes, unable to make his body obey him.

Cas’ voice sounds hoarse to his own ears when he says, “Please. Tell me what I have to do.”

Missouri spends the next two hours showing him how to draw sigils to weaken or banish demons, and devil’s traps to imprison them. She teaches him the words to a Latin exorcism that will force a demon from its vessel, and a blessing to recite for making holy water. She watches as Cas fashions a hex bag that can hide him from supernatural creatures.

Before she leaves, she turns around to look at their combined handiwork. There is a giant devil’s trap on the floor, disguised by an area rug. Every wall is adorned with chalk sigils. The largest sigil, drawn in Cas’ own blood for superior protection, is on the back of the apartment door.

“My hope is that when the demon realizes you’ve protected yourself, it will lose interest in using you as a vessel,” Missouri says as she carefully places her supplies back in the gym bag.

“How will I know I’m safe?” Cas asks, his mind spinning in frantic circles. It’s just occurred to him that if he’s unable to leave his apartment, he can’t pick up shifts at Tran’s. What’s worse, if he’s stuck inside for more than a few days, he may also lose his job at the Brain. A reporter who can’t go out on assignments isn’t much of a reporter. Cas doesn’t even allow himself to consider the ramifications for his new relationship with Dean.

With a helpless shake of her head, Missouri says, “I don’t know, Cas. I wish I did. If I see any more visions concerning the demon, I’ll be in touch.”

With that, she walks out of the apartment. Cas closes the door behind her. It feels like he’s burying himself alive.

He realizes he’s been staring at the door for several minutes when his phone buzzes in his pocket, pulling him out of his thoughts.

The screen shows a notification for a new text from Dean. Cas unlocks the phone and reads: _Hey. :) Just thinking about how amazing last night was. Hope you’re having a good day at work._

Cas turns off his phone and locks it in the drawer of his nightstand.

***

On the bus ride home, Missouri’s thoughts drift back to the lonely young man, all by himself in a small, shabby apartment.

If she could, she would have stayed with him until the danger was safely past. But she has Patience to think of. She has helped as much as she’s able.

The bus is nearly empty on a late weekday morning. Even so, wanting privacy, Missouri has chosen a window seat in the very back row.

Which is why she’s dismayed when a man steps onto the bus and slides into the seat right next to her, crowding her. She looks up to reprimand him, but when her eyes meet his, fear stops the words in her throat.

The eyes looking back at her are bottomless pools of midnight black.

“Hello, Missouri,” the man says. His voice is nasal, insinuating. “You’ve been playing with my new toy, I see. Teaching him your childish tricks.”

Many decades of confronting darkness have stiffened Missouri’s spine, and her voice is steady when she says, “You will not harm that young man. Nor anyone else, if I can help it.”

The man leers, lips stretching around glinting, yellowing canines. “Ah, but that’s just it, isn’t it? You _can’t_ help it. Poor, dear Gordon’s example surely taught you that.”

The stench of sulfur fills Missouri’s nostrils, and she fights down a wave of nausea. “You don’t scare me. I’ve fought your kind before. More times than I can count.”

The man’s smile never wavers. “Perhaps I don’t scare you _yet_. But believe me, all it takes is a little… patience.”

The bus stops, and the man rises. When the doors close behind him, Missouri looks down at her palms to find her fingernails have drawn blood.


	8. Chapter 8

For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Dean checks his phone and finds no messages from Cas.

As soon as he’d sent the text that morning, he wanted to take it back, afraid he was coming off as too needy or clingy. He and Cas still haven’t talked about their relationship; for all he knows, Cas isn’t interested in anything more than an occasional hookup.

Last night felt significant to Dean, but he shouldn’t have assumed the feeling was mutual.

As the day went on with no message from Cas, Dean’s anxiety kept spiraling. He’d probably scared Cas off for good. Cas would never contact him again. There was a reason Dean hadn’t had a serious relationship in half a decade. He tended not to be very good at them.

Now, once again, Dean drops his stubbornly silent phone on his desk, determined to finally focus on the article he’s supposed to be writing, about a new city ordinance banning Styrofoam takeout containers.

Before he can even collect his thoughts, his phone buzzes. Dean reaches for it so quickly, he fumbles it and it falls to the floor.

“Fuck,” he curses, loudly. None of his colleagues so much as raise an eyebrow; most journalists are salty by nature, so foul-mouthed outbursts in the newsroom are nothing out of the ordinary.

When Dean finally retrieves the phone, it’s to find a text from Sam: _We still on for tonight? Eileen said not to bother about dinner. We’ll bring takeout._

Dean’s insides clench. He’d completely forgotten about making dinner plans with Sam and Eileen.

Thumbs hovering over his phone screen, he considers calling the whole thing off. But he hasn’t seen Eileen in weeks, and if he does cancel, he knows how the night will go. He’ll curl up on the couch with a bottle of whiskey and check his phone every two minutes, like a pathetic idiot.

That won’t be him tonight, he decides. If Cas thinks Dean’s worth nothing more than a quick fuck, then so be it. It’s not like it’s a new experience for him.

Dean doesn’t regret his decision when, a few hours later, Sam and Eileen sweep through his front door, bringing with them the delicious smells of Thai food.

Instead of bothering with formalities, they squat around the coffee table, trading bites of each other’s dishes and catching up.

Dean’s been working on learning ASL for his sister-in-law’s benefit, but his skills aren’t anywhere near hers and Sam’s, so they both talk as they sign to help him keep up.

“This guy comes up to Mildred, right,” Eileen chuckles, “Really sleazy type, definitely pushing eighty. And he goes, ‘I wonder what a lovely little thing such as yourself could teach me about life.’ And you’ll never guess what she told him.”

Dean can’t help leaning forward in anticipation of the punch line. Mildred owns the assisted-living facility that Eileen manages. She’s well into her seventies, but never lost the attitude she cultivated touring with a Patsy Cline tribute band in her younger years.

“She said, ‘If there’s one thing life has taught _me_ , it’s that you don’t do jumping jacks without a bra on.’”

Dean snorts so hard, he’s amazed the noodles he’s been eating don’t make a reappearance through his nose. “Good for her. Nobody like Mildred for shutting down people’s BS.”

“Of _course_ she shut him down,” Sam says, looking pleased with himself. “We all know she has a thing for Dean.”

“No need to be jealous, Sammy. You either have game or you don’t. That’s all there is to it.”

“I got Eileen.” Sam flails a hand at where his wife is grinning into her curry. He looks genuinely offended. “I have plenty of game!”

“Sure, sweetie,” Eileen says, patting Sam’s knee reassuringly. “You have game.”

Almost in the same breath, she signs at Dean, “He doesn’t have game.”

Dean snorts as Sam sets down his takeout container and slumps against the foot of the couch, crossing his arms. “I saw that, you know.”

“We know you did. We just don’t care,” Eileen says, but shoots an exaggerated wink at her husband to soften the blow.

“Fine.” Sam gathers up a handful of containers and heads around the kitchen island to put away the leftovers. “Be like that.”

While Sam putters around the kitchen, Dean and Eileen swap a few more work stories, but Dean’s attention is irresistibly drawn to the kitchen counter, where his phone is waiting for him. He’s been really good about not checking for texts since he got home from work. Maybe he could allow himself just this one little moment of weakness.

Doing his best impression of casual, Dean saunters over to the kitchen. When he picks up his phone and finds no missed messages, he’s not surprised. But it still stings a little.

With a sigh, he looks up from the screen and scans the room. He saw Sam walk out a couple of minutes ago, probably to the bathroom, which is upstairs between the bedroom and the office. He’s not back yet.

Dean’s just about to head over to resume his conversation with Eileen when he hears his brother’s voice, calling his name from the upper landing.

“What’s up, Sam?” he calls back, looking at Eileen, who’s on the couch, focused on something on her phone.

“Can you come up here a sec? I wanna ask you something.”

A vague unease creeps up Dean’s spine, but he’s not really sure why. It’s not that strange for Sam to want to talk to him upstairs, is it?

Still, his stomach clenches as he walks up the crooked staircase, taking his time. Sam is standing in Dean’s bedroom, back turned, looking out the window.

“What’s up, Sam?”

Dean notes vaguely that the room is unusually cold, considering it’s been a mild day. Sam turns.

His eyes are twin pools of impenetrable black.

“Hello, Dean. What a pleasure to finally meet you,” says the thing wearing Sam’s face. It speaks with Sam’s voice, but the nasal, oily tone isn’t one Dean’s ever heard his brother use. “I’ve watched you, of course, but there’s nothing quite like a good old face-to-borrowed-face, is there?”

Fear and anger swirl in Dean’s gut, fighting for the upper hand. Anger wins out, steadying his voice. “Who the fuck are you? What have you done with my brother?”

“The name’s Alastair,” the thing says with a mocking little bow. “And your brother is fine. Simply a means to an end. Your blue-eyed little friend is the one I’m after.” The smile on Sam’s face is obscene, leering, all glinting canines. “He has found ways to shield himself for now, but it won’t do him any good in the end. You see, I can’t have my toys beating me at my own game. So I’m changing the rules.”

Dean’s mind feels like it’s scrabbling against the inside of his head, trying to keep a foothold in this conversation. “What do you mean, the rules? And what the hell kind of game are you talking about?”

“The only one that counts, Dean,” Alastair hisses. “Possession. Complete control over the actions of a human soul. There’s nothing like it.” The demon’s joy sets Sam’s eyes flickering with manic glee, and Dean clenches his hands to control the nausea clawing up his throat at the sight.

“You’re a demon,” he says, surprised his voice is still taking orders from his brain at all. “She was right all along. You’re a demon.”

“She?” Alastair cocks Sam’s head. “Ah, you must mean darling Missouri. Yes, she tried to play the game with me as well. She failed, of course.” He chuckles; a dry, scraping thing. “Don’t worry. Her time will come. She and that darling granddaughter of hers will learn what happens to those who—”

“Sam? Dean? Are you guys OK?”

Dean’s blood runs cold at the sound of Eileen’s voice from the bottom landing. He needs to keep her away. Safe. But how? He can’t warn Eileen to get out of the house if she can’t see him.

“Anyway,” Alastair snarls, stretching the word in a eerie imitation of cheerfulness. “I’m not here for your brother. He just happened to be the first one to step away from everybody else. I’m here for _you_ , Dean. The lovely, blue-eyed boy may think he’s barred me from his home. But there’s no doubt I’ll be able to persuade him to leave if I come to him inside _your_ skin, my friend.”

Alastair takes a step forward at the exact same moment Eileen appears in the doorframe behind Dean, her eyes darting around as she takes stock of the situation. The demon’s black stare flicks from Dean’s face to Eileen’s for only a split-second before Eileen strides into the room.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ ,” she chants, abruptly transformed into a vision of blazing fury. “ _Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio_...”

The demon flicks Sam’s wrist and Eileen, untouched, is thrown across the room. Her back hits the door of the opposite bedroom with a sickening thud. Almost immediately, she returns to chanting. “ _Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciae_ …”

Alastair raises his hand again, and before Dean can second-guess himself, he charges, barreling headfirst into Sam’s mid-section. Sam’s body lands on its back, Dean on top. His advantage doesn’t last: the demon takes hold of Dean and dashes him into the nearest wall, knocking the wind out of him.

Still, he’s achieved his goal: buying Eileen some time. Because whatever she’s doing is clearly affecting the demon. Sam’s hands are clutching at his head, howling with rage and pain.

“ _Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias liberatate servire_ ,” Eileen chants, voice crackling with an eerie power that isn’t hers. “ _Te rogamus, audi nos!_ ”

As Eileen shouts those last few words, Sam’s head tilts back at an alarming angle. Black smoke vomits from his mouth, curling around his body in an obscene embrace before it shatters the glass of the bedroom window and rushes out into the night.

Sam crumples to the floor, shaking and coughing. Dean and Eileen are by his side in an instant, each taking hold of an arm.

“Sammy? Sammy, are you alright?” The words are barely above a whisper, having to scrape their way past the giant lump in Dean’s throat. Still, Sam nods.

“I’m… I’m OK. What happened?” His voice sounds weak, but steady.

Dean takes a deep breath, realizing he might have skipped a few in the last couple of minutes. Then, he turns to Eileen. “Honestly? That’s what I’d like to know, too.”

Eileen grimaces, looking like she’s been caught out. “It’s kind of a long story.”

“OK.” Dean lets go of Sam’s arm and stares down at his feet, trying to get back control of himself and the situation somehow. “Is this thing going to attack us again?” The question is addressed to Eileen, and she answers it without hesitation.

“I don’t think so. Exorcisms don’t kill demons, but they do weaken them for a while.” She bites her lip, looking guilty again.

“This isn’t over,” Dean says, pointing an accusing finger at his sister-in-law. “You’re going to explain yourself. Later.”

He nods slowly, gathering his thoughts as they finally curl around a single, overriding concern. Cas. Alastair wants Cas. “You two stay here and wait for me. I have to find Cas.”

As Dean runs out the door, the sound of Sam’s voice drifts back to him.

“Who the hell is Cas?”

***

It’s been hours since Cas lost count of the number of times he’s been tempted to check his phone.

But whenever his fingers so much as twitch in the direction of his nightstand drawer, he forces himself to imagine all the possible ways the demon might make him hurt Dean. How much it might enjoy making Cas watch as the spark goes out of those forest-green eyes.

Embarrassingly late, it occurs to him that someone other than Dean might have contacted him today, and he should probably at least turn on his phone.

By that time, it’s grown dark outside. Cas has tried but failed to watch three different documentaries and paced around his apartment until indignant banging from his downstairs neighbors forced him to stop.

For courage, Cas steps into the kitchen first, pouring himself a shot of tequila and throwing it back. He pours a second and sips it slowly while he unlocks the drawer and powers on his phone.

After a minute’s suspense, an alert informs him he has a missed call and a text from Hannah, asking whether he forgot about their monthly phone date. Right.

There are also ten missed calls from Dean, all from the last twenty minutes. It doesn’t look as though Dean left any voicemails.

Alarmed, Cas thumbs through his phone, determined to call Dean back and figure out what in the world is going on. He never gets the chance, because at that moment, a frantic bellowing comes up the outside stairwell.

“Cas? Cas!”

It’s followed by rapidly approaching footsteps and a heavy thumping at his door.

“Cas, are you in there?”

Cas considers pretending he’s not home, but Dean can probably see light coming through the gaps in the doorframe.

“I’m here,” he says finally, pitching his voice just loud enough that Dean should be able to hear it beyond the door.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Dean’s relief is obvious even through the closed door. “Got worried when you wouldn’t answer your damn phone. You mind letting me in? I need to talk to you.”

Cas bites his bottom lip, considering. It doesn’t sound like Dean is injured or in immediate danger, so the safest thing is for Cas to send him away.

“It’s, um. It’s not a good time, Dean,” he tells the closed door. “But I’m fine,” he adds, after a beat of silence from the hall.

“Look, Cas,” Dean says, more quietly than before. “I, um. I got the message. You’re not interested in anything more. Totally fine. But, just…” Silence falls again, and Cas wishes he could see Dean’s face. Touch it, and smooth away the frown lines undoubtedly creasing his forehead.

“It’s just, something happened tonight, at my house,” Dean says eventually. “I’m worried there’s something after you, and I need to know that you’re being safe.”

This was more or less the last thing Cas expected Dean to say, and his feet have carried him the rest of the way to the door before he gives them permission.

When he opens the door, Dean lifts his head. His face is drawn with worry. “Hi,” Dean says, quirking up one side of his mouth in a poor imitation of his usual, dazzling smile.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas is sure his own smile succeeds no better at its job.

He gestures at Dean to come in, and Dean takes a couple of hesitant steps, just far enough for Cas to close the door behind him.

Cas expects Dean to shout at him or question him. Instead, he simply stands, back turned to Cas and the door. Just as the silence begins to feel oppressive, he says, “I saw it, Cas. The demon. It came to my house. It possessed Sam.”

At the sound of Dean’s words, Cas feels again the cold, creeping dread of the demon’s presence. The filmy black eyes. The glinting, yellowed canines.

“It possessed Sam? Your brother?”

Dean nods, back still turned, shoulders tense. Cas tries his hardest not to reach out, but it’s a lost cause. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, resting his forehead between Dean’s shoulder blades. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Is Sam…”

Dean is standing unnaturally still. If possible, he seems more tense than he did before Cas touched him. “Sam’s fine,” he says eventually. “Turns out my sister-in-law knows how to exorcise demons. I’ll be having a talk with her about that later,” he adds, with a mirthless laugh.

They stand in silence for another few moments. Then, Cas lets go, taking a step back. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wanted to protect you from that.”

Dean spins around to face Cas, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Protect me from what?”

Before Cas can reply, Dean’s eyes catch on the blood sigil at the back of the door. “What the fuck?” he murmurs. Turning in a slow circle, he seems to take in for the first time the protective wardings chalked onto every wall of the apartment.

Jaw clenched, Cas walks the five short steps to his kitchen unit, pouring himself another shot, and one for Dean. He can feel Dean’s eyes trailing him the whole way, but Dean accepts the drink. Cas slumps onto his couch, at the far end of the room, and gestures for Dean to sit next to him. Dean doesn’t move.

“Protect me from what, Cas?”

“I saw the demon too,” Cas says, downing his shot. “It came to Tran’s. It was going to possess me, I think. But I got lucky. Someone walked into the store before it could…. anyway. That’s why I was… the way I was, last night.”

Finally, Dean steps away from his position by the door, making his slow way across to the couch and sitting as far away from Cas as humanly possible.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” There’s something in Dean's eyes: well-disguised, but looking suspiciously like hurt.

“I wanted to. I didn’t think you’d believe me. And maybe I thought you were better off not knowing.”

Dean throws back his shot, swallowing heavily as he sets down his glass on the badly scratched paint of Cas’ rickety coffee table. “Yeah, maybe it would’ve been hard to believe, but you were freaked out and alone, and you should’ve been able to talk to me.” Dean meets Cas’ eyes, letting him see the anger churning beneath the surface. “And I definitely _wasn’t_ better off not knowing. Tonight proved that.”

Dean looks past Cas, at the sigils. “It said it wanted _you_ . It was pissed, something about how you found a way to protect yourself. I’m guessing that’s what _these_ are about.” He fixes Cas with a furious glare. “It couldn’t get to you, so it came for me and my family.”

Cas slumps against the back of the couch, covering his face with his hands. All he’d wanted was to keep Dean safe, and he’s apparently achieved the exact opposite. “God, I’m such an idiot,” he mumbles into his palms.

“Have to agree with that,” Dean says gruffly. Hands still covering his face, Cas can nonetheless hear Dean stride over to the kitchen and refill their glasses.

Cas finally lowers his hands when there’s a rough nudge at his upper arm. He takes the drink Dean offers him and sips, savoring the lingering burn.

“Dean, I swear to you, if I thought there was any chance that you or your family would get hurt, I…” He swallows, unsure how to finish that sentence, so he tries again. “You mentioned something about getting the message.” He makes sure to catch Dean’s eye, willing him to understand. “I wasn’t _trying_ to send a message. Far from it. It’s just that I was terrified when Missouri told me the demon could force me to hurt people… people that I care about.” 

Cas carefully raises his hand from where it’s resting on his thigh and reaches out. Dean watches him closely, but doesn’t back away, and doesn’t withdraw his own hand when Cas takes hold of it.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I really _was_ trying to keep you safe. I had no idea the demon would come after you if it couldn’t get to me.”

Dean nods, slowly, then looks around the room again, studying the sigils. “Missouri taught you that stuff?”

“Yes. And a few other things.”

Dean is still glaring, but some of the anger seems to have seeped out of him. “Can you teach me?”

“Absolutely,” Cas says, feeling a relieved smile stretch across his face.

“Good.” Dean reaches over to set his shot glass on the coffee table.

Cas tracks the movement, acutely attuned to every shifting expression on Dean’s face until he can catch his eye. “I really am sorry.”

“OK,” Dean says quietly.

“OK?”

Dean nods. Cas feels his pulse pick up as he starts to lean toward Dean. When Dean doesn’t move, Cas lifts his hand to cup Dean’s cheek.

Dean tenses and pulls back.

“Shit. Missouri.”

***

Missouri hasn’t stopped moving all day.

After calling her neighbor to make sure Patience can stay for a few more hours, she painted every protective sigil she knows across the walls of her apartment. Next, she catalogued everything she owns, taking stock of what she can take on the road with her and what will need to stay.

She lived a transitory life when James was small, and she can do it again. She hasn't allowed her mind to dwell on how things turned out between her and James. Patience needs to be safe. Everything else is a consideration for another day.

Her plan is vague, but it involves taking a train up to New York to stay with a cousin, then evaluating her options for going further. The important thing is to go. To put as much distance between Patience and the creature as possible.

By the time darkness falls outside, Patience is asleep in her crib and Missouri is ready to leave at first light. It turns out all her essentials fit into her gym bag, and most of what Patience needs can be crammed into a small suitcase.

At least money will not be a concern. No more than usual. The small frauds and occasional palm readings that have kept her afloat for years will continue to do so wherever she goes.

When her phone rings with a call from Cas, Missouri knows she shouldn’t answer. She will not be taking the phone with her, and it’s better that no one, not even Cas, knows where she is going.

And yet. What if there’s trouble, and she could have helped?

With a sigh, she accepts the call. “Hello, Cas. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Missouri,” the familiar, gritty voice says. “I’m here with Dean. He had an encounter with the demon, and he says it made threats against you and your granddaughter.”

Missouri’s mind races. Now. She needs to leave now. Damn the next morning.

Another voice sounds over the phone then. “Missouri, listen. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you. Will you let us help?”

Missouri shakes her head wearily, even knowing she can’t be seen. “My dear boy. How could you possibly help me?”

“For one thing,” Dean says, “we can find you and Patience a safe place to stay. Somewhere with other people around. And I’m pretty sure one of those people is like you. I mean, not psychic, but she knows about demons. How to fight them.”

“A hunter?” Missouri feels a small spark of hope kindle in her chest. Perhaps, if she wasn’t on her own… perhaps there’s a chance.

“Please, Missouri.” It’s Cas’ voice again, warm and full of concern. “Let us help.” 

Missouri feels the first small crack start to form in her resolve.


	9. Chapter 9

“And, well, those are just a few of the things that go bump in the night.”

Eileen looks uncertainly at the group assembled in her dining room, probably trying to decide whether she should offer a round of drinks or get in her car and never stop driving.

Missouri's unruffled, of course, and Patience is playing with blocks in the far corner of the room. Cas is sitting very still and blinking a lot.

Dean chances a glance over at Sam, whose expression is carefully blank — in the way Dean knows from experience means he got his feelings hurt.

Of course, his brother already got the 'monsters are real' speech from Eileen last night. Dean knows this because Sam called him after to yell about how this is a “really big fucking secret to keep from your husband,” and yeah, he has a point. Especially because it turns out that Eileen’s parents _raised_ her to hunt monsters, until they died on a hunt — not in a fire, like she told Sam. Which explains why Eileen wanted out of the hunting life.

Still.

Dean did a couple of shots with Sam over the phone to commiserate, on top of the shots he’d already done with Cas, and he ended up pretty buzzed. So did Cas, for that matter, because Dean had never actually left Cas’ tiny shoebox of an apartment that night, and so Cas heard at least one side of the conversation. As a result, Cas seemed to feel like he needed to get drunk just to be a supportive… well, whatever the hell he is.

Once Sam finally got done shouting, everyone involved was so drunk and exhausted, they just fell into bed. In Sam’s case, the bed in his own guestroom. In Cas and Dean’s case, Cas’ sorry fucking excuse for a sleeping arrangement, barely two steps up from a camp bed.

Bottom line, there had been no talking about their relationship status, or lack thereof. Again.

At least Dean had had the presence of mind to ask Sam whether he could drop off Missouri and Patience the next day and have them stay in one of the spare bedrooms at Sam’s house for a while. Dean would’ve put them up himself, of course, but it’s not like he has more than one bed in his house. And even though he has his disagreements with Sam, he knows his brother would never turn away anyone who needs his help.

He’d sort of felt bad for Missouri, considering how thick the tension at Sam and Eileen's was likely to be for a while. Then again, if anyone was equipped to deal with two people whose hackles were up, it was Missouri and her no-nonsense attitude.

So now they’re all gathered here, around the large, carefully polished dining table that can comfortably seat twelve and faces floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the rolling hills just north of the city.

Basically, they’re using up precious sick days at work so they can get their lives turned upside down and, hopefully, strategize.

In the wake of Eileen’s lecture, Cas is the first one to unscramble his brain enough to talk. “Missouri taught me how to hide myself from a demon,” he says, giving her a small, grateful smile, which she returns. Then, he turns to Eileen.

“But you mentioned just now that a lot of the… the monsters you used to hunt have vulnerabilities. Things that can hurt them.”

Eileen nods. “Silver for shifters and werewolves. Iron and salt for spirits. Dead man’s blood for vampires.” She shoots a furtive glance at Sam, who has his arms crossed and eyes fixed on the table.

“So what are a demon’s vulnerabilities? Is there anything that can actually kill it?”

“Not really,” Eileen says with a grimace. “You can trap them in a circle of burning oil, or by drawing a devil’s trap on the floor or ceiling. Killing the vessel isn’t that helpful, because the demon can just smoke out.”

Dean frowns. “Smoke out?”

“Like what happened to me. Right?” Sam’s voice is thick with barely contained anger. It seems like he’s not particularly happy to look at Eileen, but it’s not like she’ll know what he’s saying unless he does.

Eileen nods, returning Sam’s glance uncertainly. “Yes. That’s what we call it when a demon leaves a vessel.”

“So, what you’re saying is, there’s nothing we can do?” The sharp edge to Cas’ voice cuts through the room, and even Cas himself looks startled.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s been a tough few days.”

“It’s really alright, Cas,” Missouri says, smiling ruefully. “It’s been a tough few days for all of us.”

“He’s got a point though,” Dean says. “Is there anything at all we can do, other than sit around and wait to be possessed or killed?”

“There may be,” Missouri answers. “A devil’s trap is useful, but only until something breaks the chalk line. When that happens, the demon walks free. There is something else, though, an object, that can serve as a permanent trap.”

Even Sam can’t seem to help leaning forward, eyes alight with interest. “What is it?”

Missouri smiles at the picture of eagerness surrounding her. She leans back in her chair, shifting slightly to get comfortable. For all the world, it looks like she’s about to tell them a bedtime story, but Dean has a feeling it’s the kind no sane parent would tell their kid.

“I wonder,” she says, “what you know about the history of the Ouija board.”

“The what?” Cas asks. Dean takes a moment to appreciate his confused, squinty head tilt, which always seems to make something warm and fond stir in his chest.

Sam snorts. “Doesn’t Hasbro make those?”

At Missouri’s annoyed frown, Sam seems to remember that he lives in a world now where monsters are real, his face doing an abrupt one-eighty from scornful amusement to genuine concern. “Wait, do those actually summon ghosts? Because we have one upstairs, and we’ve used it once or twice.”

An indulgent smile back on her face, Missouri reaches over to pat Sam’s hand. “Don’t worry, dear. The kind they make nowadays can’t summon a thing.”

She settles back again, studying them each in turn. “The Kennard Novelty Company, right here in Baltimore, was the first to produce boards that could contact the spirit world. It was owned by a man named Charles Kennard. He had developed the design for the board, but he needed investors to get his idea off the ground. He asked four good friends to loan him money, and they did.”

“Let me guess,” Dean says, trying his hardest not to look at his brother. “The money screwed things up between them.”

Missouri’s eyes flick to him, and there’s an unsettling spark of understanding on her face, like she knows exactly what Dean’s thinking. She’s probably already figured out he doesn’t live in a spacious three-bedroom in horse country.

“Sadly, yes,” Missouri continues. “They persuaded Kennard to turn over his patent rights to the company, which kept him from making money on his own design. The company opened production facilities in several other cities, but Kennard never saw another cent. His friends forced him out.”

“Figures.” Dean’s always been a pessimist about human nature, but that doesn’t mean he likes it when his worst instincts are confirmed.

“In any case, Kennard didn’t give up so easily,” Missouri says, surveying her audience, which is still hanging on her every word. “He kept trying for the rest of his life to make other designs. One of his collaborators was Ms. Ida Moseley.” She pauses for effect, like the born performer you’d have to be when you read people’s fortunes for a living. “My grandmother.”

No one quite gasps at this turn in the story, but it seems like a near thing. And maybe Missouri was expecting something along those lines, because she looks just a little disappointed when she keeps the story going.

“Like most psychics, Ida was able to sense the presence of spirits and communicate with them at times. But she also had another, more unusual gift: she was able to summon demons and subdue them to her will.”

Eileen shakes her head in disbelief. “That’s incredible. You mean, like the opposite of a demonic possession? A human, controlling a demon?”

“Exactly.” Missouri nods, looking pleased.

“You think she somehow transferred this power to the design she developed with Kennard.” As usual, it’s Cas dragging everyone back to the point. Dean catches his eye across the table and gets a small, warm smile for his effort.

“I don’t think so,” Missouri says. “I know so.”

“OK, so, where do we get one?” Dean asks, trying to tamp down the tentative curl of hope in his chest.

“I’m sorry to say that only two of these boards were made. One was used by Ida and Kennard to trap a demon, which is how we know it works. When the trap was sprung, they burned the board, destroying the demon.”

Once again, Missouri pauses, clearly wanting someone to ask the obvious question. With an emphatic eye roll, Cas obliges. “And the other one?”

Missouri smiles, but she looks tired. “That’s where we may run into some difficulties. My grandmother told me the second board was buried with Kennard.”

*** 

Even as Missouri explains the occasional necessity of grave desecration in the life of a hunter — which Eileen confirms — there is quite a lot she doesn’t say.

She doesn’t, for example, say that this will not be her first time trying to retrieve the board from Kennard’s grave.

Missouri generally considers herself well-preserved, but thirty years ago, she had a slimmer midsection, and her hair was perhaps a little fuller. She was sufficiently attractive at the time that she would sometimes run into trouble at the dingy, secretive bars where hunters sought each other’s company.

That was how she met Gordon Walker.

He was a few years older than her. Old enough to have a hunter’s rage at the world coursing through him, but not old enough to be incapable of empathy.

The night a group of four men cornered Missouri outside a dive bar near Nashville, Gordon helped her fight them off. They got to talking and liked what they saw in each other. For years, they hunted together. On occasion, in the darkness of seedy motel rooms, they sought comfort with each other as well.

Grave-robbing being a two-person kind of job, Missouri had never before attempted to take the board. But despite Gordon’s occasionally abrasive temper, she eventually trusted him enough to let him in on her grandmother’s secret.

The night they made their move, everything went wrong. They had barely begun their work when a night watchman spotted Missouri and pointed his gun at her, finger shaking on the trigger.

The man never saw Gordon, who came up from behind and shot him in the back.

Even then, they might have been able to get away and stay off the grid until things calmed down. Unfortunately for them, a group of teenagers had come to the cemetery that night on a dare. They noted down the license plate number of Gordon’s car as it roared away, and one of them identified Gordon in a lineup a few days later.

When Gordon was sentenced to life in prison, Missouri was grateful she had never told him about the child.

Later, after James was born, Missouri swore to herself that she would never hunt again. But the visions still came, and with them a near-unbearable compulsion to prevent the evil she was forced to witness. So she resumed hunting, and life took its course.

Three decades later, Gordon was granted amnesty. By then, James was dead, and there seemed little point in causing Gordon grief over a son he never knew.

In any case, the Gordon who moved to Poe Homes three weeks before his death was barely a shadow of the man Missouri had known.

In her darker hours, Missouri lets herself believe that Gordon welcomed the demon when it came for him.

*** 

Even from his current vantage point, sitting on a ridge that overlooks the Kennard gravesite, Cas can tell that Druid Ridge Cemetery is beautiful. Mature trees stretch their limbs over rows and rows of weathered stones that reach all the way to the horizon. Here and there, stately mausoleums and soaring obelisks dot the landscape, watched over by statues of cloaked angels, their admonishing fingers pointing heavenward.

Missouri insisted that before they make a move on Kennard’s grave, they spend several nights scoping out the gravesite from beyond the cemetery boundaries, taking note of the night watchmen’s patrol schedule.

Dean took charge of the plan with ease, volunteering to go that same night. They all had work the next day, but it seemed like they couldn’t afford to wait, so no one fought him too hard on being in a hurry.

Still, having Dean go out alone, even with the protection of a hex bag, seemed like an awful idea. So Cas swallowed his fear and volunteered to come along. If nothing else, being stuck together in close quarters might give them a chance to clarify a few things.

Even with his eyes trained on the cemetery, Cas can feel Dean’s gaze on him and, when he turns, he can see the glint of a smile even in the near-total darkness. “Like it?”

Cas simply nods. “It’s very peaceful.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, I guess it could be. Didn’t seem that way though when I snuck in here as a teenager.”

“Oh?” It’s almost impossible to see Dean’s face in the darkness, but Cas imagines it alight with remembered mischief.

“Yeah, there used to be this statue here. People called her Black Aggie. It was just a statue of a woman, sitting and wearing a cloak, but you couldn’t see her face because she had a hood drawn over it. Doesn’t sound like much, but it was fucking creepy to look at after dark.”

“Let me guess.” Cas leans over and bumps his shoulder into Dean’s. “Someone dared you to kiss her.”

Dean lets out a laugh, then quickly stifles it, remembering they’re not supposed to draw any attention to themselves. “Close enough. Sit on her lap.”

“Did you do it?”

“Yeah, for about two seconds before I hightailed it out of there. My friend Jo spent the whole drive over telling stories about how at night, Black Aggie would come to life and raise the dead all over the cemetery. Seems like bullshit until you’re actually there.” After a moment, Dean adds quietly, “Though with what we know now, maybe it really wasn’t bullshit all along.”

They sit in silence, watching the progress of the night watchman’s flashlight across the cemetery grounds and cataloguing it in the notebook they’ve brought along.

After a little while, a breeze picks up, making Cas shiver slightly despite his coat. Somehow, Dean seems to notice, because he shuffles closer on their blanket until their sides are touching, warmth seeping into Cas even through the layers of clothing separating them.

“Did you ever write about Alonso Cuevas?” Dean asks suddenly, the words cutting through the peaceful stillness of the night.

“No.” Cas presses into Dean’s side a little more. “I was being an asshole. It's your story.”

“Damn right,” Dean says, but the words come out sounding fond.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“You believe me about why I didn’t return your message, right?”

Dean goes very still. Finally, he says, “I don’t know, Cas. I know you said it was about… wanting to protect me or whatever. Still hurt though.”

“I know,” Cas says quietly. “I really am sorry. And I did tell you the truth about my reasons.”

“I’m sure you did, Cas.” Dean's voice sounds rough, clipped, an edge of hurt lying just beneath the surface. “But what you have to know about me is that I always assume the worst about people. Perks of growing up in a broken home, I guess.”

Cas raises his hand off the blanket and lets it rest on the back of Dean’s neck, curling his fingers softly through the hair at the nape. He breathes a sigh of relief when Dean doesn’t pull away.

“This is probably the worst possible time in my life to start a relationship with someone,” Cas whispers, his face turned toward Dean, lips almost touching the stubble on Dean’s cheek. “But if you don’t mind giving me a second chance, I think I’d like to try anyway.”

With a startlingly quick movement, Dean twists to wrap his arms around Cas’ waist, pressing their lips together. Cas returns the kiss and deepens it, pulling Dean closer by the back of his neck. When Dean moves away to lie down on the blanket, Cas chases after him.

Quite a few minutes pass before either of them remember they’re supposed to be watching the cemetery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! And here you thought you were done with your little tour of the history and neighborhoods of Baltimore. Sorry to disappoint ;) . 
> 
> I’ve taken a couple of liberties with the story of Charles Kennard (*cough* Ida Moseley *cough*), and a few facts about the events in question are disputed. The patent for the Ouija board was originally issued to Baltimore-based lawyer Elijah Bond, and he assigned it to Kennard and his company. However, accounts differ as to whether Bond or Kennard invented the board. Kennard did get pushed out of his own company and tried unsuccessfully to create and patent other designs.
> 
> I named Ida Moseley after Ida B. Wells, a crusading African-American journalist who lived in the 19th century. She was never a Baltimorean as far as I know, but one of the city’s best soul-food restaurants (Ida B.’s Table) is named in her honor.
> 
> Sadly, Black Aggie no longer lives at Druid Ridge Cemetery. She was moved because breaking in to see her had become kind of a rite of passage for local teens. She is now displayed in a courtyard behind the Dolley Madison House in Washington, D.C.


	10. Chapter 10

Days pass, and then weeks, with no news about Alastair.

Missouri hasn’t had any visions of new victims, and a call from Dean to Jo confirms there have been no additional dead bodies with traces of sulfur at the scene.

Wary of the calm, but needing to keep up with the routines of normal life, everyone has gone back to work. Still, they've been careful to stick to crowded places whenever possible and carry hex bags at all times.

After dark, Dean, Cas, Sam, Eileen and Missouri take turns watching the cemetery in pairs, keeping meticulous notes of when the night watchmen tend to patrol near Kennard’s grave. A few days in, Sam and Eileen finally agreed to take a watch together, and after that, they seemed to start talking to each other again. Dean couldn’t help pointing out, with a wicked grin, that their notes of the night’s schedule weren’t as thorough as they could be.

Between the constant tension of knowing Alastair is still out there, the nights spent at the cemetery and the stress of holding down two jobs, Cas should be exhausted, but it's hard to stay focused on anything unpleasant when things are going so well with Dean. They haven't gone back to having sex yet, but their make-out sessions could put most teenagers to shame. Also, now that things are official between them, they've been spending much of their free time together. Even when Cas picks up a shift at Tran’s, more often than not, Dean comes by to keep him company for the last few hours.

One night, almost two weeks after his encounter with Alastair at Tran's, Cas drops by Dean's place for dinner. Dean is busy cooking, whistling tunelessly as he cuts a path back and forth between the fridge and stove, while Cas watches from a safe distance at the other side of the kitchen island.

“Remind me why I’m part of this again?” Cas asks, watching with amusement as Dean jiggles the saucepan and sways his hips to whatever tune is playing in his head.

“To meet Charlie.”

“I’ve already met Charlie.”

“You met Charlie as someone I had a work meeting with. You haven’t met Charlie as my boyfriend.”

Cas snorts. “Just because we’re dating now doesn’t mean I’ve turned into a completely different person.”

“I’m hurt.” Dean flashes a teasing grin over his shoulder. “You saying that being with me ain’t a totally transformational experience?”

“It’s definitely an experience,” Cas says, returning the grin.

He’s silent for a while, watching Dean in his element, but the niggling voice at the back of his head doesn’t seem to be ready to leave him alone yet. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy spending time with you. Don’t get me wrong. I just think that even if we’re dating, you should still be able to see your friends without feeling like you need to invite me along every time.”

Dean turns the heat on the stove to low, wiping a smidge of sauce off his hand with the dish towel. Then, he steps around the kitchen island and slots himself behind Cas, chin resting on his shoulder. Cas leans back against him, savoring the solid warmth.

“From now on,” Dean murmurs into the space where Cas’ neck and shoulder meet, “can we just assume that if I invite you to something, it’s because I actually want you there?”

Cas’ lips quirk up in a small smile. “I suppose that seems reasonable.”

“Besides,” Dean says, running a hand up and down Cas’ side. “You know this isn’t just friends hanging out. I need Charlie’s help. And you’re part of this because you helped me work out what I need her to do.”

Cas nods. Dean told him that when he started looking into the murders of Meg Masters and Gordon Walker, he sometimes let himself imagine what it would be like to actually solve the case himself. Now, to _know_ the solution and be unable to write about it… it's hard to imagine a more frustrating situation for a journalist.

So, over long nights spent at the cemetery, watching a flashlight’s meandering progress, they’ve come up with an alternate plan together. It’s a plan that might allow Dean to write about this case and other, similar ones. Unfortunately, it’s also a plan that requires someone with a level of IT knowledge neither of them possesses.

The person who does possess that knowledge arrives just a few minutes later. Charlie folds Dean into an exuberant hug, then turns to Cas, looking him up and down with a grin.

“Hey, nerd in training. So _you’re_ the one who finally managed to make an honest man out of our perpetual bachelor.”

Cas raises an eyebrow at her. “Nerd in training?”

“Dean tells me you have some pretty alarming gaps in your movie knowledge. I’m on a mission to fix that, starting tonight.”

“He’s never even seen Star Wars,” Dean pipes up from the stove, where he’s working some kind of magic with crushed tomatoes and a bewildering assortment of spices.

Charlie looks genuinely appalled. “Never even…”

Before she can finish her thought, her eyes slide away from Cas’ face and to the wall opposite, which carries a large chalk sigil. Cas has become so used to seeing them around his, Dean’s and Sam’s homes that he barely notices them anymore. But he realizes now, with a jolt, that he has no idea what story Dean wants to tell Charlie as to what the sigils are, or why they’re necessary.

“Change your interior decorating preferences since the last time I was here?” she asks, raising a questioning eyebrow in Dean’s direction.

Dean looks back at her evenly. “Turns out, monsters are real, and one is after us. Those are for protection.”

Charlie’s eyes light up with what can only be called excitement. “God, that explains so much.”

“Such as…?” Cas asks, trying to regain a foothold in the conversation.

“I see a lot of stuff in the more, um, niche-y parts of the internet,” Charlie says, shrugging.

Cas still has a bit of trouble processing how easily Charlie accepts the existence of supernatural creatures without any physical evidence to back up Dean’s statement.

When he says so, Charlie simply shrugs. “We’ve been friends for fifteen years, so trust is kind of a given. If Dean tells me the world’s ending on Friday, I’m going to start hoarding supplies.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “We do know each other pretty well. Pretty sure Charlie knew I was bi before I did.”

“He was _very_ obvious,” Charlie says with a conspiratorial glance at Cas. “When he came out to me, it was kind of a reverse Han Solo moment. You know, where the ‘I know’ comes _before_ the ‘I love you.’”

Cas can only guess at the expression on his face, but he suspects it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of blank confusion, because Charlie sighs, world-weary and exasperated. “Dude, we _really_ need to watch Star Wars.”

Charlie and Dean keep up a lively banter throughout the rest of food prep and all the way through dinner. Cas enjoys just watching them, but to his own surprise, he finds himself joining in every now and again.

Once all the dishes are put away, though, Dean abruptly turns serious. “I did have an ulterior motive inviting you here tonight, kiddo. And it kinda has to do with the whole ‘monsters are real’ thing.”

Charlie, for all her usual over-the-top cheerfulness, is all business in a whiplash-inducing second. “What do you need?”

“I need you to hack into BPD’s system and get me case files.”

Charlie nods. “No problem. Any specific ones?”

“All homicides from the past two years.”

Charlie’s eyebrows rise halfway up her forehead. “Dude, that’s in the neighborhood of seven hundred files. That’s a lot of information.”

Dean winces slightly. “I know. But I need to look through everything.”

“Talk to me, Winchester.” It shouldn’t be possible for someone as short as Charlie to loom over someone as tall as Dean, and yet. “Why am I stealing case files for you?”

Dean explains the details of his plan, and they spend a few hours talking over the possibilities. By the time they finish, it’s almost eleven, and when Charlie ignores several pointed yawns from Dean, he grabs her bag and starts pushing her gently in the direction of the front door.

“No, but look, we never even watched Star Wars,” Charlie protests, flailing her hands at Cas, who’s enjoying Dean’s struggles from his comfortable perch on the couch. “Your boyfriend over there is going to keep going through life, not knowing what Princess Leia looks like in a bikini.”

“I’m not exactly feeling the loss.” Cas grins. “Maybe if it was _Dean_ in the bikini…” he adds, enjoying the way Dean’s face flushes all the way to the tops of his ears.

“You boys have a serious lack of appreciation for the female form,” Charlie calls over her shoulder as Dean nudges her through the doorframe.

“I appreciate the female form just fine. But right now…” Dean aims an ostentatious wink at Cas. “What I’d really appreciate is some quality time with my boyfriend. So unless you want a show, I’ll see you later.”

To the sound of an indignant “Gross!” Dean shuts the door, leaning against it with a heavy sigh. “Man, I love her, but she’s hard to get rid of.”

Cas drains the last few dregs of the beer he’s been nursing all night. “Quality time, huh? What did you have in mind?”

Dean throws up his hands. “Anything. Literally anything. I appreciate kissing and cuddling as much as the next guy, which, by the way, Sam can never know because I’d never hear the end of it, but…” He shrugs, suddenly looking shy. “I don’t know, man. I thought we got off to a really good start, and then we just… stopped.”

Cas bites his lip, picking at the label of his beer bottle. “There’s a reason for that.”

Dean walks over and drops onto the couch next to Cas. “Talk to me.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I loved everything we did that night.” Cas sets his beer bottle on the coffee table and scoots closer to Dean until Dean raises his arm and makes room for Cas to slot himself under it. “It just… it seemed like I asked you to have sex for the wrong reasons. I asked you because I needed to feel in control of something and forget how scared I was. I didn’t take into consideration whether it was the right thing for both of us, or how you felt about it.”

Dean seems to consider that, then tightens his arms around Cas’ shoulders. “Answer me this, then. Did you give me a chance to say no?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did it seem like I was uncomfortable at any point?”

“No, but—”

“Then I’ve gotta be honest, Cas, I don’t really see the problem. Unless _you_ didn’t enjoy yourself.”

“No, Dean, you know I did. If you’d just listen to me for a moment, I could try to explain myself.” Cas can’t help the edge of annoyance creeping into his voice. He probably should have explained all this to Dean earlier. Despite their generally easy rapport with each other, communicating about feelings doesn’t seem to be their strong suit.

Dean’s eyes flash briefly, but then he holds up a placating hand. “OK, fine. Explain.”

“It just seemed like we started with the thing we were supposed to work our way up to, you know? And then, with everything that happened after, I wanted to make sure you trusted me not to…”

“Be an asshole again?”

Cas shrugs. “Basically.”

He angles his body further toward Dean, throwing an arm across his chest. “Do you?” At Dean’s questioning look, he adds, “Trust me again, I mean.”

“If I ask you to blow me right the fuck now, will that answer your question?”

Cas sits up to see Dean’s face, and finds it lit by a dazzling grin. His own lips curl in response. “I guess it’ll have to do.”

Cas surges forward, kissing Dean with all the desperation and want he's kept bottled up for nearly two weeks now. Dean responds with enthusiasm, meeting Cas’ tongue with his own and moaning into the kiss.

Reluctant to let go for even a second, Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and pulls until Dean’s back hits the couch. He settles himself on Dean’s lap to map a trail of kisses along Dean’s jawline, leaning forward at just the right angle to grind their crotches together.

He cherishes every hitched breath and drawn-out moan as he slides his hands under Dean’s shirt, then travels south to undo Dean’s belt, button and fly, fingers clumsy with haste.

All it takes is a gentle tap on the hip for Dean to lift up and allow Cas to slide his jeans down his thighs. Entranced by the imprint of Dean’s cock against his boxer briefs and the small wet spot near the tip, Cas bends down to mouth at it.

“Fuck, Cas.” Dean’s voice is low with arousal, gravel-deep and whiskey-smooth. He bucks his hips and takes hold of Cas’ hair, tugging just the right amount to balance pain with pleasure.

“You’re so impatient,” Cas mumbles against the side of Dean’s thigh. “Good things happen to those who wait.”

Still, Cas tugs at the waistband until Dean’s cock jumps free, making Dean gasp and give another insistent pull on Cas’ hair.

Obliging him, Cas licks a long stripe up the shaft, then runs the tip of his tongue along the slit to gather up the little pearls of precome there.

“God, Cas,” Dean bites out. “You’re killing me.”

“I hope not. I need you alive to return the favor.”

Cas takes him all the way to the back of his throat, and Dean’s chuckle turns into a shaky moan. Dean squirms underneath him, clearly trying his hardest to stay still. Cas runs a hand up Dean’s side and taps gently to get his attention. When Dean looks down at him, Cas gives a slight nod, hoping Dean takes it for the permission it is.

Breath coming faster, Dean settles back against the arm of the couch, running his hand through Cas’ hair and bucking his hips in a slow, careful rhythm.

Cas’ eyes tear up, but he forces steady breaths in and out through his nose, focusing on the warm, salty weight in his mouth and the low thrum of arousal pulsing through his own body.

Dean comes with a shout of Cas’ name and Cas swallows around his release, lapping lazy circles with his tongue as Dean rides his aftershocks.

As soon as Cas pulls off, Dean grabs him by the hips and flips them, breath still coming fast but a cocky grin on his lips.

“Strap in, buddy.”

Cas leans back, tasting the bitter salt of Dean’s come on his tongue even as slick warmth engulfs him.

***

They decide that Wednesdays are the best nights for grave robbing.

The watchman on duty those nights tends to be a little slower on his rounds than the others, and only makes it to the section with Kennard’s grave twice during his shift. Which gives them a solid four hours to get in, dig up the grave, fill it back up, and make their getaway.

Dean tells Cas he should stay behind at Sam’s place and watch Patience, which gets him cursed out in some pretty creative ways. But eventually, even Cas is forced to admit that he’s the one who’s most vulnerable in a dark, lonely place that’s not protected by warding sigils.

So the next night, it’s Dean, Sam, Eileen and Missouri who pile into Sam’s disgustingly sensible hybrid to drive to Druid Ridge Cemetery. Dean tried to insist for a while that they should take the Impala, but eventually caved when Eileen pointed out that a car with a near-silent engine was probably the best one to use for an activity that breaks at least three different laws.

Luckily, Druid Ridge isn’t one of those cemeteries with iron gates and high walls. Instead, the only obstacle after dark is a flimsy driveway gate that might keep out cars but is almost embarrassingly easy to climb over.

Weighed down by shovels, guns, salt and various other equipment that Eileen insists is necessary for their protection, it takes them a good twenty minutes to reach Kennard’s gravesite.

There’s a tense moment halfway through their hike when something breaks through the tree line to their left, but it turns out to be a stray deer.

Eventually, they make it to the top of the ridge.

The Kennard family headstone is modest and set back a little from the ostentatious mausoleums closer to the main road. A smaller marker, set low into the ground, denotes the place where Charles himself is buried. Nothing about the marker suggests it belongs to anyone special.

Dean sets to digging alongside Sam and Eileen, with Missouri serving as lookout, her eyes darting anxiously over the rows of memorials stretching on all sides of them. Dean wouldn’t have brought her along in the first place, but Missouri thought there was a possibility she could see trouble coming before it hit, so he reluctantly agreed. Still, Missouri had seemed awfully jumpy the entire trip here.

As Dean settles into the back-breaking work, he remembers that he likes this. He likes doing things with his hands, whether it’s building cars, cooking burgers or disturbing people’s eternal rest.

Most days, his brain tends to spin in circles, coming up with reasons why such-and-such was his fault and makes him a bad person, even if such-and-such happened a decade ago. It’s not a great way to live. But working like this, sweat on his neck and blisters on his hands, his brain is suspended, intent only on helping him finish the job.

It takes more than an hour for them to reach the depth at which the coffins are buried. Wiping his face on his sleeve, Dean watches in awe as Eileen squats down next to the one marked “Charles W. Kennard” and levers it open with a crowbar they’ve brought along for this exact purpose.

And just like that, Dean’s looking at a dead body. Not that there’s much left, except some dusty bones and the moldering remains of what was once probably a Sunday suit.

And there, clutched between Kennard’s fragile, bony fingers is… a wooden box. Unlike everything else in the coffin — even the satin lining that probably cost an arm and a leg — it’s flawless. It gleams even in the dim glow of their flashlights, wood polished like the box was put here yesterday.

When Dean points this out, Missouri nods grimly. “It’s proof that the board is inside. Evidence of power.”

Before they can properly celebrate their win, a flashlight beam cuts through the night. It’s coming from about five rows to the south of where they’re standing, in an unbelievably compromising position — right at the bottom of a grave.

Eileen takes hold of the box and scrambles out of the hole, Sam and Dean following close behind. Missouri is frozen, staring in the direction of the light, until Dean grabs her and drags her along. Casting her eyes around frantically, Eileen motions toward the closest mausoleum.

It’s hard to see in the near-complete dark, but something long and metallic glints in her fingers, and in less than fifteen seconds, she’s managed to unlock the door of the square, domed structure.

They push inside, backs as close to the wall as possible. Dean’s trying hard not to think about what he’s probably pressing up against right now. It feels like another coffin.

They stay very, very still, sending up silent prayers that the night watchman’s route will take him far away from the evidence of a disturbed grave.

After an eternity, but probably closer to five minutes, Eileen turns on her own flashlight, aiming it at the floor to sign: _Safe to go out, I think._

They fill the grave back up as quickly as they can, Missouri pausing to say a prayer for the spirit of the deceased. Then, they hightail it out of there, Dean’s heart trying to jump up his throat the whole way.

***

Missouri watches as everyone assembles around Sam and Eileen’s dining room table, looking down at the gleaming box. She allows herself a moment to glance at them each in turn — covered in sweat and grave dirt, but safe and whole.

Then, she focuses her attention once again on the thrumming, ancient power emanating from the wooden box at the center of their little circle.

Gingerly, Missouri extends her hands and hovers them over the box. She senses no danger, so she touches the gleaming lid and opens it, revealing the object inside.

At first glance, it’s very much like the familiar Ouija design, though smaller — about the size of a paperback. Numbers and letters line up along the board’s middle, the words “yes” and “no” emblazoned in the top corners.

However, where the bottom of a Ouija board would ordinarily carry the word “goodbye,” the letters in this particular design spell out “captus.” The Latin for “trapped.”

Missouri realizes her fingers have been hovering a mere inch above the board, utterly enthralled by its aura, when Sam speaks. “How does it work, Missouri?”

Missouri reluctantly tears herself away. “The demon will be trapped if its vessel comes into physical contact with the board.”

Eileen frowns. “How are we going to do that? We’re not strong enough to manhandle a demon, even if we work together. And even if we somehow get Alastair inside a devil’s trap or a circle of holy fire, we’ll still be at a distance. There won’t be any way for us to get close enough to make him touch anything.”

“There is _one_ way,” Missouri says, the words slow and heavy on her tongue.

Cas looks at her sharply. “You mean possession.”

Missouri nods. “Yes. I will have to let the demon possess me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I express my profound thanks and deepest regrets to the kind, diligent people working at Druid Ridge Cemetery. They dug through all their dusty files and maps to help me find the location of Charles Kennard’s grave, which isn’t exactly well-known. (Unlike his rival Elijah Bond’s, which can be found at Baltimore’s famous Greenmount Cemetery and has a gravestone shaped like a Ouija board.)
> 
> I didn’t tell these kind people that I was planning to have my characters rob one of their graves, or that I made sure to take a look at how sturdy (or not) their driveway gate is. Thank you, and I’m sorry.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean leans back in his desk chair, fidgeting with the external hard drive that contains more than two years’ worth of BPD case files, courtesy of Charlie. It’s late afternoon, and everyone’s articles for tomorrow’s paper have already been handed in.

For hours now, Dean’s been watching Donatello’s office door like a hawk, waiting for any sign that his editor has a little downtime and might be in a good-enough mood to hear him out.

He’s barely been able to focus on work, between his nervousness about making his pitch to Donatello and residual tension from the previous night.

After Missouri’s big reveal, things got very tense very quickly, especially when Missouri admitted that, even with her powers, she had no guarantee of being able to survive the possession, let alone control the demon long enough to trap it inside the board.

To make things worse, adrenaline had still been running high from the trip to the cemetery, which was maybe why Dean ended up loudly accusing Missouri of trying to abandon her own granddaughter.

In the light of day, he’s well aware that his furious reaction to the idea of children being left to fend for themselves has more to do with John Winchester than Missouri Moseley. He should probably apologize to her.

Dean looks up when he notices movement near his desk, to find Donna leaning against the side of his cubicle. As always, she’s dressed impeccably in a blue blouse and dress pants, sleek blonde hair tied in a neat ponytail.

“Hey, Dean-o,” she grins over the rim of a mug that reads, _I trust citizen journalism as much as I trust citizen surgery._

“Hey, Donna.” Dean tries to stow his tension long enough to return the grin, but he’s not sure he makes it work. “How’s your one-woman campaign against the underworld?”

“Busy, as always,” Donna shrugs. “Hear it’s about to get less busy though. Word on the street is you’re moving in on my beat.”

Dean turns his eyes to the ceiling. “I’m gonna kill Jo.”

Donna snorts into her mug. “Thought _ you _ were the one who’s known her since the far-off days of your youth. You don’t tell Jo your secrets unless you want them spread all over BPD.”

“OK.” Dean spins his chair to face Donna fully. “First of all, I’m younger than you.”

“Rude,” Donna interrupts, but her lips are twitching.

“Second of all, I’m not moving in on your beat. Donatello asked me to find  _ a _ crime story, one, and report on it. Something you might not have had time to cover.”

Donna takes a sip of her coffee. When she’s done, the teasing smile has dropped off her face. “Dean, you know how many murders we have in Baltimore, right?”

Dean nods, clenching his jaw. “Well over three hundred a year.”

“That’s right. And even if somehow, magically, I could cover all those myself, I’m still not doing anything about the robberies, carjackings, rapes and all the other unpleasantness that comes with life in this city.”

Dean raises an eyebrow at her. “You’re saying you  _ want _ me to move in on your beat?”

“What I want,” Donna says, studying him, “is a city where one reporter can easily cover all the crime by herself and have time for a couple rounds of Sudoku in between. But I can’t have that. So yeah, I’d take the help.”

This time, Dean’s grin comes a whole lot easier. When Donna turns to walk away, he calls after her, “Hey, what kind of mood is Donatello in today?”

“Foul,” she calls back over her shoulder. “But what else is new?”

Dean chuckles and waves at Donna’s retreating back, then goes back to staring at Donatello’s door. Mumbling, “Nut up, Winchester,” he gets up, hard drive firmly clutched between his fingers, and makes himself close the distance to Donatello’s office. The morose grumbling he can hear even through the closed door almost makes him reconsider, but he’s come too far to back out now.

The response to his knock is an irritated “What?” Not a great start.

Still, Dean opens the door, to find Donatello running both hands through his thinning — but somehow still too long — hair. “Riddle me this, Winchester,” he rumbles. “How does anyone make it through journalism school without knowing the difference between ‘t-h-ei-r’ and ‘t-h-e-y-apostrophe-r-e’? One’s a possessive, the other’s a contraction. It’s not rocket science, people.”

Dean takes an involuntary step back, brain frantically scanning for an excuse that will let him back out of this.

Donatello studies him, frowning, then waves Dean closer. “Oh, just come in already. All appearances to the contrary, I don’t bite.”

Still feeling apprehensive, Dean nevertheless closes the door behind him and slumps into the chair opposite Donatello.

“Please tell me whatever you have  _ there _ ,” Donatello flails a hand at the hard drive Dean is holding on to for dear life, “is good news.”

From experience, Dean knows it’s best to come straight to the point with Donatello, rather than give him time to get impatient.

“It’s two years’ worth of BPD case files.”

Donatello puts down the red pen he’s been using to intimidate the printouts in front of him and leans back to look fully at Dean. “Interesting. Mind telling me how you got them?”

“Found this in my mailbox,” he says, holding up the hard drive. “They’re all on here.” Which is the truth. At least, the part of the truth that doesn’t include admitting he asked a friend to commit cyber crimes to get him the information in the first place.

“Does this have to do with the assignment I gave you?”

Dean nods. “A crime story with a twist.”

Donatello folds his hands over his ample stomach, studying Dean over his reading glasses. “Let me summarize. I ask you to find me an unusual crime story, and a couple of weeks later, a mother lode of BPD data just so happens to drop into your lap?”

Dean tugs at the collar of his dress shirt. His poker face apparently decided to take the day off. Donatello notices, too, because the next thing he says is, “Dean, if you broke the law, or encouraged someone else to break the law, to get this information, I can’t let you write about it. You know that.”

Dean nods, trying to focus back on his pitch. “I know that. And I’m not planning to write about the data. Not exactly.”

“Let’s assume you have a point and get there.”

“I wanna write a regular column.” The words are out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop himself.

Donatello’s eyebrows have traveled halfway up his forehead. “About…?”

“About strange crimes. Crimes with unexplained elements that make them harder to solve. I’ve been going through the data to find cases to take a deeper dive into.”

Unlike Dean’s, Donatello’s poker face is out in force. “Give me an example.”

“Well,” Dean says, feeling better now that he’s getting a chance to put his idea out into the world. “There’ve been several dead bodies found recently with traces of sulfur at the scene.”

Donatello’s jaw gives the slightest twitch, something Dean’s learned to interpret as carefully disguised interest. “The Brain wrote about a case like that. You’re saying there’s been more?”

Dean nods. “And other kinds of unexplained cases too. People found dead in their living rooms with water in their lungs. People with no external injuries but unusually desiccated brain tissue.”

Donatello nods, considering. “It does sound like the kind of thing people like to read about. Weird stuff.” He pauses, staring at a point above Dean’s shoulder.

“Here’s the thing, Dean.” Dean’s so taken aback to be called anything other than “Winchester,” he almost misses what Donatello says next. “The murder rate in this city is a fucking tragedy. What nobody around here needs is for us to sensationalize death and suffering for the sake of a few more clicks or advertising dollars.”

“I understand that, boss,” Dean says, swallowing heavily. “Which is why I’ll be contacting the families of every victim I wanna write about, to get their buy-in and get their voice into the piece.”

Donatello picks up his red pen again, tapping it against the desk thoughtfully. “What if the family doesn’t want the story covered?”

“I’ll back off.”

“What if the police start asking questions about where you’re getting your information about these cases?”

Dean shrugs. “They know as well as you and I do that I don’t have to reveal my sources.”

Donatello studies Dean for a moment or two. “Get me a draft for the first column. Then we’ll talk.”

Dean feels noticeably lighter as he strolls back to his desk. If this works, he’ll get to write about crime without taking Donna’s job out from under her. He’ll get to tell interesting stories and help families get closure over their loved ones’ unexplained deaths.

Then there’s the other part: the actual criteria he was using to search the data. Deaths whose details suggest involvement by demons or any of the other kinds of creatures Eileen’s been telling them about. If Dean writing about these cases attracts the attention of hunters who can bring the real killers to justice, so much the better.

Dean’s so pleased with himself, he almost doesn’t realize his cell is ringing.

When he picks up, Cas’ voice sounds in his ear. “Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.” Dean smiles into the receiver, his mood lifting even further. “I just talked to Donatello and you’ll never guess… Wait, what’s that number you’re calling from?”

“My phone is out of batteries. I had to borrow somebody else’s.”

“Oh. Right. Anyway, so Donatello—”

“Dean.” The urgency in Cas’ voice is enough to make Dean bite off his sentence with an audible snap. “I’ve been out on an assignment. I’m at the Light Rail station in Woodberry, and I think someone is watching me.”

A trickle of cold fear slides down Dean’s spine. “Can you get to safety? Anywhere more crowded that’s close?”

Cas hums. “I think so. It looks like there’s some kind of event happening in the warehouse space across the tracks.”

“Good. That’s good. Go there and wait for me. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Please hurry,” Cas says.

The call disconnects.

Dean grabs his bag and heads for the exit.

*** 

“Your granddaughter needs you. You’re the only family she has left, and you’re just gonna abandon her?”

Dean’s words, concern and grief disguised as anger, have been echoing around Missouri’s head all day.

They’re with her when Patience wakes, bouncing on the tips of her toes in the travel crib Sam and Eileen have borrowed from a neighbor. They’re with her when she watches Patience toddle all over the back yard, picking dandelions and babbling at the birds in the trees stretching over her head, chasing the shadows of their limbs as they dance across the grass.

Missouri knows, with the certainty of breathing, that out of everyone in the group, she has the best chance of subduing Alastair during a possession. Yet, part of her now wonders whether her eagerness to plunge herself into danger has to do with the change she’s seen in Patience over the past week.

Surrounded by green forest and open space, Patience has become more vocal, more active. Her breathing, which used to rattle in ways that were increasingly concerning, has improved as well.

Perhaps, Missouri has been thinking to herself more and more often, Patience is better off without a grandmother bent down by grief and regret.

But Missouri can’t deny she’s observed changes in herself too. The weight of her losses is still with her, of course, but it feels more bearable out here, in the sun and quiet of a suburban backyard.

Careful tendrils of hope unfurling in her chest, she allows herself to consider that if she makes it through this, it may be time to try for a new start.

*** 

When Dean gets off work, he always calls Cas to see if he needs a ride home, or wants to stay over at Dean’s place for the night.

It’s a daily ritual, and one that Cas has come to rely on.

Today, Dean doesn’t call.

Cas tells himself he’s not worried. There’s no reason to assume anything is wrong. Maybe Dean went to happy hour with the other reporters. Maybe he got sent on a late assignment. There are any number of reasons why he might have forgotten to call.

On the bus ride home from his office, Cas calls Dean, just to check in. The call goes straight to voicemail.

Two minutes later, his phone rings. Sagging with relief, Cas picks up without checking the number. “Dean?”

The voice at the other end is nasal, insinuating. “Hello, blue-eyes. Missed me?”

Cas’ heart rate ratchets up instantly. He clenches his hand on his thigh to force himself to calm down. This is not the time for panic.

“Nice of you to put your cell number on the internet for everyone to find,” Alastair says, an obscene smile coloring his voice. “Check your texts. I sent you something.” 

Hands shaking, Cas ends the call and taps on the notification from his texting app, which shows a new message sent from Dean's phone. The screen lights up with a picture of Dean, bleeding from the head and apparently unconscious, tied to a concrete pillar.

Seconds later, another text arrives: _Come see me, blue-eyes, or he dies. Make sure you’re alone. You have two hours. 1770 Union Avenue._

Cas takes a deep breath in and lets it out. He can’t panic. There’s no time. He silently thanks Eileen for having the foresight to make them all swap numbers in case of emergency.

Sam picks up on the third ring. As quickly and steadily as he can, Cas explains the situation.

Sam’s reaction is instantaneous. “You’re not going. Just head home and wait. I’m having dinner with Eileen and Missouri right now. We’ll get one of the neighbors to watch Patience and be ready to head down there in half an hour.”

Cas doesn’t swear often, but when he does, he makes it count. “Fuck that. Dean is in this situation because Alastair wants to get to  _ me _ . I’m not sitting around while everyone else puts themselves in danger on my account.”

“Exactly, Cas.” Sam’s exasperation comes through loud and clear, even over the patchy phone line. “Alastair wants  _ you _ . That’s why you’re not going.”

Cas disconnects the call. He’s let Sam know what’s going on, and he doesn’t have time to argue.

Luckily, his stop is the next one up. Cas jumps off the bus and races the two blocks to his apartment building, sweat pooling at the small of his back as he takes the stairs two at a time.

His mind is racing. How did Alastair get Dean alone? They’ve been so careful to carry hex bags for concealment and never be on their own anywhere.

Cas calls an Uber, then takes a moment to change into jeans and a t-shirt. He stuffs all the holy water he can find into the pockets of his coat. Last of all, he retrieves the .45 caliber Glock he keeps in his bedside table; the one his parents gave him for his eighteenth birthday. He tucks it out of sight, in the back of his waistband.

By the time Cas is ready, his ride is waiting downstairs. Sliding in the back, he says, “1770 Union Avenue.”

Thankfully, rush hour is over by now, and they make decent speed traveling west across town. When they get to the vicinity of the address, though, the driver looks at Cas over his shoulder, uncertain. “Pretty sure this is it, man, but I gotta say, not sure why you wanna be coming here, especially after dark.”

Cas looks around and swallows. They’re in Woodberry, next to the Light Rail tracks, maybe half a mile downhill from Dean’s house. But they might as well be a world away, surrounded as they are by empty warehouses with gaping, shattered windows.

“Which one is it?” Cas asks, his throat dry.

“That one, I think.” The driver points to his right, at a two-story brick building. There is a steel door next to a mural of a worker ant. The ant’s head is shaped like a fist, clutching a flag that reads, “Reclaim. Remain.”

The door is ajar.

“Thank you,” Cas says. “I’ll be fine.”

He gets out and waves to the driver to be on his way. After one final, hesitant glance at Cas, the man reverses his car and disappears back down the overgrown, cracked asphalt.

Cas draws his gun and pushes the door the rest of the way open, rusty hinges whining ominously. Steeling himself, he steps forward into the gloom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curious about the mural? If you look up “1770 Union Avenue, Baltimore, MD” on Google Street View, you get a good look at it, as well as the entrance Cas uses to get inside.


	12. Chapter 12

“Oh De-hean.”

The nasal, sing-songy voice echoes off the crumbling brick walls that Dean can just make out in the dim, flickering light from a couple of dusty overhead lamps.

Dean’s head hurts like hell. At least he’s not feeling dizzy, so he’s probably not concussed. The last thing he remembers is getting to the warehouse opposite the Light Rail station and finding nobody there. Then, a sharp pain and everything going dark.

His wrists are tied to the back of what feels like a concrete pillar, ropes chafing at his skin.

“Answer me, boy. Are you awake?” Alastair’s voice is warm honey dripping off a wickedly sharp blade.

When he saunters into view, he’s wearing the body of a tall, long-limbed man with short brown hair, a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard and murky brown eyes.

“That was _you_ on the phone, wasn’t it?” Dean’s pretty sure of that at this point, but he needs to hear it anyway. If it wasn’t Cas who made the call, Cas might still be safe.

Alastair walks a slow half-circle around Dean, taking him in. “Of course. Imitating voices is a particular talent of mine. Not all demons can do it, you know.” The fucker actually sounds proud.

“So Cas is fine?”

Alastair chuckles. “So sweet of you to be concerned. Blue-eyes is in perfect health, as far as I know.”

Dean drops his head back against the pillar and closes his eyes, letting his naked relief flow through him for just a moment. When he opens his eyes again, Alastair is still standing there, studying him.

With no good plan for escape suggesting itself right now, Dean figures his best option is to keep Alastair talking.

“So who’s the poor bastard you’re riding today?”

Alastair chuckles darkly. “An old friend. I keep him stashed away in here as a fallback for when I’m, shall we call it, between vessels.”

“You mean when you’ve just killed someone.” Dean is grateful to find that, now he’s face to face with Alastair, fear is the last thing on his mind. Instead, every part of his body is thrumming with rage.

“Oh, Dean. Here I thought you knew all about me.” Alastair saunters across the warehouse floor, pulling a rickety wooden chair out of a shadowy corner. He sinks into it with supreme relaxation, crossing one leg on top of the other. “ _ I _ never kill any of my vessels, didn’t you know? They kill themselves.”

“Because you make them.” Dean leans forward, straining against the ropes, testing for weaknesses in the knots. He finds none.

There's a soft look on Alastair's face, like he’s replaying fond memories in his mind’s eye. “There’s nothing like controlling someone in that way, Dean. Shaping them. Feeling the exact moment the spark of life leaves them.”

“So what,” Dean says, trying to scan the floor at his feet for a rusty nail, a loose floorboard, anything, “You thought you could just keep possessing and killing people all over this city and no one would ever put a stop to it?”

Alastair cocks his head, studying Dean with mild amusement. “I won’t deny that drawing the attention of hunters is always a risk. But that’s the beauty of Baltimore, isn’t it, Dean? There is so much death here. What’s a few more bodies in abandoned buildings?”

Alastair rises from his chair to pull something out of his back pocket. When the screen lights up, Dean recognizes his own phone.

“Hmm.” Alastair taps a thoughtful finger against his lips. “I sent your boyfriend a nice little picture of you. Gave him two hours to come here and give himself up. Looks like one hour’s already passed.” Sharp canines glint in the dim, bluish light emanating from the phone screen. “Guess he doesn’t care about you as much as you thought.”

All thoughts of escape come to an abrupt stop, replaced by cold panic. “No. No. Not Cas. Just… take me, alright? Possess me. I don’t mind. I give you permission. Do it.”

Alastair’s laugh echoes ominously off the cavernous ceiling. “You give me permission? Permission.” He leans forward, elbows on his thighs, shoulders shaking with mirth. “I don’t need your _permission_ , Dean. If I want you, I’ll take you.”

“Fine.” Dean fights to keep his voice steady. The blazing anger from a minute ago feels miles away, and the fight is draining out of him. “Do it then. Take me. Why does it have to be Cas, huh?”

Alastair shrugs, lips still twitching. “It’s the principle of the thing. I chose him, and he got away. I can’t let that happen.”

As soon as Alastair’s words have stopped echoing across the cavernous space, someone steps out of the doorway at the other end of the warehouse. The overhead lamps provide just enough light to reveal a familiar figure, and Dean’s heart sinks.

“Come and get me then.” The gravel-deep voice is laced with fury.

Dean watches helplessly as Cas steps closer, a gun held securely in both hands. It’s pointed straight at Alastair’s head.

“Hello there, blue-eyes.” Alastair looks almost fond. “You have to know by now that your toy there won’t be able to kill me.”

“I’m aware,” Cas says evenly, squinting at Alastair in open disgust. “But I wonder how well even a demon will be able to move without kneecaps.”

Alastair cackles. “You really are too amusing. I can leave this vessel at any time. Any physical harm you do to this body will damage  _ it _ , not me.” He cocks his head to the side, his voice suddenly high-pitched, mocking. “Please, sir, what did I ever do to you? I’m just an honest working man trying to provide for my family. However shall I do it without my kneecaps, sir?”

Dean can see the moment Cas loses his nerve. He doesn’t lower the gun, but a shiver of uncertainty moves across his face. Alastair sees it too. With a lazy wave of the demon’s arm, Cas is thrown into the wall to his left, gun clattering to the floor. He doesn’t stir.

“Cas!” Dean strains against his bindings again, his arms bending at painful angles in a frantic attempt to find something, anything he can use to escape.

In the next split-second, several things happen.

Eileen and Missouri burst through the warehouse entrance and head straight for a snarling Alastair. The ropes binding Dean’s wrists fall to the floor, and he looks up to see Sam smiling grimly down at him, holding a knife. 

“How the hell did you get here?”

“Cas called. We came as soon as we could,” Sam says, looking apologetic. “I snuck in through the back. You and Cas had Alastair pretty well distracted, so I was able to get to you without him spotting me.”

Dean takes Sam’s offered hand and lets himself be pulled up, then returns his attention to the battle playing out in front of him.

Eileen and Missouri are still advancing on Alastair, Missouri reciting an exorcism while Eileen sprays the demon with holy water from a large, metal flask. Each impact of water on the vessel’s skin raises smoke, filling the warehouse with the stench of burned flesh.

Roaring with pain and rage, Alastair flings an arm blindly at his attackers, hitting Eileen and propelling her backward against the unforgiving concrete floor.

“Eileen!” Sam is by her side in an instant, even as Missouri finishes the exorcism and black smoke roars from the mouth of Alastair’s vessel, hitting the ceiling while the body slumps to the floor.

The smoke curls and undulates for a moment, like a vision of fury crackling through the air. Missouri produces something from inside her coat, depositing it on the floor. Dean recognizes the polished gleam of the Ouija board.

“Take me!” Missouri screams at the smoke still moving above them. “These others are nothing but ordinary humans. There’s no challenge in matching wits with them. I’m different: special, like you.”

The smoke continues to curl above her, meandering endlessly, biding its time. Pitching her voice to the ceiling, Missouri continues. “You fear me, don’t you? You style yourself a great villain, but you enjoy weakness in your victims.”

There’s a smile on Missouri’s face now, lighting it up, making her seem decades younger. “You fear me, because you think I can overcome you.”

The smoke curls around itself one last time. Then, without warning, it roars forward, making straight for Missouri, who turns her face up to meet it.

Less than a foot away, the smoke changes direction, heading for the far wall. Cas is still slumped there, unconscious.

The smoke wastes no time, forcing Cas’ head back and invading his mouth.

As Dean watches in horror, Cas’ eyes open, blue buried under filmy black.

A sharp, glinting smirk distorts Cas’ face. His voice, when it speaks, is nasal and insinuating.

“About time.”

***

Cas is drowning. Darkness wells up around the edges of his vision, and there is a voice under his skin.

“Hello, blue-eyes,” it says. “Doesn’t it feel better now? Isn’t it peaceful?”

Cas wonders whether he can speak. He tries, but a suffocating thickness, like muddy water, fills his lungs.

He can still see the warehouse, but everything feels distant and distorted, like looking through the thick bottom of a glass bottle.

Cas feels his body rise off the floor and walk toward his friends. He feels his arm shoot out from his body, flinging Sam and Missouri away like rag dolls.

To his left, Eileen rises off the floor, her anguished shout of “Sam!” reaching him from miles away.

His legs walk, without his permission, straight toward Dean.

“Shall we play with him, blue-eyes?” Alastair’s voice, all barely concealed eagerness, echoes through his blood stream, leaving lightning-sharp pain in its wake.

Cas feels Alastair’s power curl around his tongue, ready to make use of it. To speak words intended to hurt.

_ You think I cared about you? You were just a pretty face to me. A distraction. A nice, easy fuck. _

The still-unspoken words echo around his mind, and Cas knows with utmost certainty that if he allows them to escape, something is going to break irreparably between him and Dean.

Fighting for control of his own vocal chords with every fiber of his being, Cas suddenly realizes he has stopped walking. Dean is standing a mere four feet away, eyes wide with fear, unsure of what to do.

When Alastair’s voice sounds in Cas’ ear again, there’s something new in it. An edge of tension, maybe. “Now, now, blue-eyes. Stop fighting, there’s a good boy. You know it won’t do any good. Keep walking now.”

Cas feels something grab hold of his muscles, and once again, his legs are wrenched from his control. They close the distance between him and Dean. His arm rises, pulls back, and his fist hits Dean squarely in the face.

“Cas!” Dean’s voice rings out, cracked and pleading, tearing through the nightmare fog swirling in Cas’ head. Cas feels Alastair take control of his neck to look at where Dean has collapsed onto the filthy warehouse floor. He’s kneeling, both hands raised to grip at the sleeves of Cas’ trench coat. “Cas, fight this! This is not you!”

From the edge of his vision, Cas sees Eileen approaching him again, holy water in one hand, wooden board in the other. Without hesitation, Cas’ hand rises to fling her away. The board clatters to the floor by his feet.

Alastair forces Cas’ eyes to stay fixed on Dean’s face. The blood flowing thickly from Dean’s lip, the bruise blooming along his jaw.

_ He _ did this.

“Cas, please,” Dean’s voice is shaking, but he doesn’t rise to defend himself or even move away as Cas bends down, hands curling, grasping for Dean’s throat.

_ No. No. No. _

“Do it, blue-eyes,” the voice hisses in his ear. “You’ll like it, I promise. Feeling the spark go out of him. There’s nothing like it.”

“NO.”

Cas isn’t aware he’s spoken out loud until he sees Dean’s eyes widen and realizes his hands aren’t reaching for Dean’s throat anymore. They’re suspended, halfway there, shaking with denied compulsion.

Wild hope sparks in Dean’s eyes, and he tugs at Cas’ coat sleeve, insistent. “The board, Cas. Touch the board.”

Of course. The board.

Cas feels a panic that isn’t his own pulsing through his veins. Panic is good. Panic means a loss of control. Cas uses it.

With a supreme effort, he pulls at his own back, forcing it to bend down to where the board has fallen. Once again, his fingers curl; this time, he wills them to keep curling, to touch the gleaming wood.

Alastair is screaming in his ear, an incoherent bellow of rage.

Cas’ hand connects with the wood.

Incongruously, he thinks back to a summer long ago. A large, brown beetle had landed on his arm, its legs ending in tiny, wickedly sharp hooks that dug into his skin. Cas took hold of the beetle and tried to pull it off, watching in dismay as the hooks dug further and further into the flesh of his arm, breaking the skin. He tried again, wrenching at the insect, until finally, it relinquished its hold, leaving nothing but a handful of bloody scrapes behind.

Remembering, he wrenches. All at once, the hooks inside his body release their hold. There is a great rushing as his mouth opens wide and vomits black smoke onto the board.

The world swims back into focus.

For a moment, Cas is conscious of nothing but exquisite lightness and relief. Then, there is a careful, gentle touch on his arm.

He looks up to see Dean, lip still bleeding, but twitching with the beginnings of a smile. “Cas?”

Cas closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again. Nods.

The expression on Dean’s face is one of unadulterated pride. “You did it, Cas.”

Cas finds himself pulled forward, into the warm promise of Dean’s arms.

*** 

“How long do you think he’s been dead?”

Sam looks at Eileen as he speaks, then frowns down at the body of Alastair’s former vessel, the stench of decay heavy about it. Eileen moves to stand next to her husband, placing a hand on his arm. “Not sure. Could be months.”

Missouri nods. “Frequent demonic possession would have held the signs of decay at bay.” She leans down to touch the man’s chest and murmur a prayer in his name, forcing herself not to shudder at the spongey feel of his skin even through his clothes.

“What do we do with him?” Cas asks, ever the practical one. He is still pale and leaning heavily on Dean, but he seems mostly unharmed.

“We’ll place a call to the police, anonymously. To let them know where to find him.” Missouri starts walking outside, beckoning for the others to follow. “Come on now. The job isn’t done yet.”

On the overgrown, cracked tarmac outside, they stand in a circle, ringing the board as though to shield the rest of the world against it.

Missouri can still sense the object’s power, but it’s directed inward now, focused on containing the imprisoned thing.

She pulls a box of matches from her pocket, retrieving one and igniting it. She touches the match to the edge of the box. It catches instantly, eager to fulfill its purpose.

Missouri straightens up and studies the faces of her friends; hurt, yes, but not beyond recovery.

As the flames dance and consume the wood at her feet, she allows her mind to stray into the future.

In a few days’ time, she’ll be heading to the bank to retrieve her savings. Say goodbye to her friends and board a bus with Patience, heading west.

Where to, she doesn’t yet know. Someplace open, green and with trees.

**END PART II**


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue: Four Months Later**

“Grandma!”

“Yes, dear?”

Missouri smiles down from her easy chair on the front porch as Patience comes hopping toward her, jumping across the lawn with glee. “Look, Grandma! Ba-fly!”

“Very nice, dear,” she says, dutifully following the child’s pointing finger to where a striking Monarch is making its drunken way through her flower beds.

Satisfied, Patience toddles away, following after her quarry.

In the window behind Missouri, the neon sign advertising psychic consultations is turned off for the day. It seemed the right thing to do: to sit out here and enjoy the last of the summer warmth alongside her granddaughter.

She had a vision this morning, dark and reeking of death. But it holds no power to disturb her here, in this moment. Eileen has connected her back to the hunters’ network. When Missouri sees images of death, there will be someone to take care of it.

Someone else.

*** 

There’s nothing like a Sunday morning.

Especially when that Sunday morning is sunny and warm, and begins with the sight of a very beautiful, very naked man in your bed.

Dean takes a moment to appreciate the view of Cas, tangled up in his sheets, limbs draped haphazardly over easily three-quarters of the available sleeping space.

He doesn’t realize Cas is awake until the corner of his lip twitches.

“Hey, you,” Dean says, aiming a gentle poke at his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Don’t think I can’t see you.”

Blue eyes open, amusement sparking below the surface. “Like what you see?”

“You know I do.” Dean plants a chaste kiss on the corner of Cas’ mouth. “How long’ve you been awake?”

“A while,” Cas says, with as much of a shrug as he can manage while he’s still half-melted into the bed. “You're looking thoughtful. Anything on your mind?”

Dean considers playing it off or changing the subject. But he’s realized by now that Cas has him figured out to an embarrassing extent, and he won’t be distracted easily.

Sure enough, Cas says, “You’re thinking about the murder. The one you’ve been researching.”

Dean nods.

After he handed in his first draft column, about Alonso Cuevas’ case, Donatello gave him the go-ahead to write installments monthly. Just for the web at first, as a trial run. But he’s up to four articles now, and every single one has been popular. He should be able to get a spot in the print edition soon.

“Yeah,” Dean admits, “it’s been on my mind.”

“What’s bothering you about it?”

Dean runs a finger up and down Cas’ side, enjoying the sight of the goose bumps following in its wake. “It’s just… when I started this, I was hoping it’d get the attention of hunters, you know? People who can catch the killers and make sure they don’t hurt anybody else. But I haven’t heard a thing. I’ve been checking in with the families, asking questions about anyone new who’s come around to look into the case.”

“And?” Cas takes hold of Dean’s finger and brings it to his mouth, planting a gentle kiss on the tip.

Dean shakes his head. With a sigh, he rolls over onto his back. Cas chases after him, slotting himself under Dean’s arm.

“I know it’s a djinn, you know?” Dean meets Cas’ eyes, willing him to see and understand the idea that’s been forming in his mind. “It’s the exact M.O. Eileen taught us. And she told us the kinds of places they like to hang out, too. I could get Charlie to pull some blueprints for me, check for buildings with the right kinds of conditions…”

Cas sits up, eyes wide. “You want to hunt it.”

Dean bites his lip and starts to turn away, but Cas cups his jaw with one hand, pulling him back. “You do, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Dean sits up, taking hold of Cas’ hand and lacing their fingers together. “But you don’t have to be involved. At all. I can do this on my own. Eileen can help me get the right weapons, and help me get more practice with them, and…”

Dean’s rambling is effectively cut off when Cas leans forward and presses their lips together. “You’re an idiot,” Cas says when they break apart, giving Dean his trademark squinty glare.

Dean clenches his jaw, trying not to get defensive. “I figured you’d take it this way, but look, I’ll do what I can to be safe, and…”

“No,” Cas says, voice level but firm. “You’re an idiot because apparently you think you’re going to do this without me.”

It takes Dean a second to get there, but he eventually does. “You wanna hunt with me?”

Instead of answering, Cas slumps back against the pillows, crossing his arms behind his head and aiming a thoughtful stare at the ceiling. “What should we tell Sam and Eileen?”

“The truth, of course,” Dean says, lying back next to Cas and floating along on the giddy excitement of making plans. “I figured we could bring Charlie in on it too, when we need help with, um, less than legal research.”

Cas nods thoughtfully. “How do you think Sam will take it? You guys have seemed… good, lately.”

Dean hums his agreement. “Yeah, it’s amazing how it changes your priorities, going through a near-death experience together. Fighting about money suddenly didn’t seem that important anymore.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Cas looks over at Dean, nudging an elbow right at the spot that makes Dean squirm and giggle in a way he really hopes Cas doesn’t ever tell anyone else about. “You think Sam’s going to be upset about this?”

Dean shrugs, considering. “I think he’ll come around to it. He’ll probably be most annoyed about the fact that we’ve found a way to fight crime without doing a thing for his conviction rate.”

Cas seems to consider that the end of the conversation, because he raises himself on his elbows and nuzzles at the skin right under Dean’s ear. He starts to trail lower, nipping at Dean’s throat and chasing the sting with his tongue, knowing full well he can take his time.

Which, really, is just another great thing about Sunday mornings.

***

“Panty kink or anal plugs?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cas can see Marv’s hands running through his unkempt, curly hair, making it stick up in all directions.

“I don’t know, Marv,” Cas says, keeping his eyes fixed on his computer screen. “But someone once gave me an extremely valuable piece of advice. What was it?” He stares off into the distance in mock thoughtfulness. “Oh, right. ‘As long as it’s about sex, people will want to read it.’”

Marv’s scoff is eloquent with disgust. “I still don’t know what kind of shady deal you made with Dumah to get her to take you off sex column duty.”

Cas does look at Marv then, letting him see the smirk on his face. “Maybe she could tell my dry spell was over and figured _you_ needed this more. You know,” he says, flailing a hand in Marv’s direction, “so you can live vicariously.”

Busy basking in Marv’s scowl, Cas almost misses the buzz of his phone. When he looks down, there’s a new text from Dean: _Meet me downstairs. Got something to show you._

Cas checks the ancient, cracked wall clock. Four thirty. Close enough. He shrugs into his trench coat and grabs his shoulder bag. “Heading out, Marv. Don’t wait up.”

Marv’s grumbling follows him all the way down the stairs.

Dean is waiting just outside the front door, leaning against the Impala’s passenger door, face alight with excitement.

“Cas, check it out!” Dean peels himself off the car for a quick kiss hello, then heads for the trunk, popping it open and gesturing at the interior with both hands.

Cas frowns, considering. The trunk is empty, and maybe a little cleaner than usual. Other than that… oh.

“It looks smaller,” he says.

Dean is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement. “Got it in one, Cas.”

Dean reaches into the trunk, releasing a hidden catch. The trunk’s bottom pops up, revealing a mother lode of salt and holy water underneath.

“Doesn’t look like much yet, but Eileen’s working on getting us more weapons. Stuff we can use to hunt that djinn. Others too. And, you know, if BPD pulls us over, we don’t look like serial killers. So that’s a bonus.”

Dean nudges his shoulder against Cas’. “You like it?”

“This is a great idea, Dean,” Cas says warmly. He leans over to kiss the pleased smile on Dean’s face.

Still looking delighted, Dean slings an arm around Cas’ shoulder and pulls him close. With his other hand, he reaches down to slam the trunk.

“C’mon, Cas. We’ve got work to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please take the time to leave kudos or even a comment! I don't exaggerate when I say that getting comments, even if it's "just" a string of emojis or a keysmash, is what makes me want to keep writing.
> 
> You can also come find me on [tumblr](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com)!
> 
> If you think you might like to read more of my writing, you can subscribe to me [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta).
> 
> Later this month, I'll be posting my Halloween fic, "Vampire Hunter! Starring Castiel Krushnic". If enemies to lovers, awful vampire puns, accidental monster hunts and shipper Garth are your thing, I hope you'll give it a look!
> 
> I'm also working on episode codas for Season 15, another challenge fic, and a screwball comedy AU with musicians Dean and Cas on the run from gangsters at a Florida resort.
> 
> Hope to see you there!


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